ARTHUR  J.  REE  S 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Boon  DEP»RTM! 


THE     SHRIEKING     PIT 


BY  REES  &  WATSON 

THE  MYSTERY  OF 
THE  DOWNS 

"The  plot  is  ingenious,  curiosity  is 
piqued,  suspense  is  maintained,  and 
the  element  of  suprise  is  not  lack- 
ing." 

— New  York  Tribune 

THE  HAMPSTEAD 
MYSTERY 

"One  of  the  best  examples  of  dealing 
with  an  exciting  mystery  in  a  con- 
sistent and  reasonable  fashion." 

— The  Outlook 


THE 
SHRIEKING  PIT 

BY  ARTHUR  J.  REES 

CO-AUTHOR 

"THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  DOWNS," 
"THE  HAMPSTEAD  MYSTERY" 


NEW  YORK:    JOHN    LANE    COMPANY 

LONDON:   JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

TORONTO:        S.     B.     GUNDY 

MCMXIX 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  STREET  &  SMITH  CORPORATION 

COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York.  U.S.A. 


TO 

MY  SISTERS  IN  AUSTRALIA 

ANNIE  AND  FRANCES 

The  sea  beats  in  at  Blakeney — 
Beats  wild  and  waste  at  Blakeney; 

O'er  ruined  quay  and  cobbled  street. 

O'er  broken  masts  of  fisher  fleet. 
Which  go  no  more  to  sea. 

The  bitter  pools  at  ebb-tide  lie. 
In  barren  sands  at  Blakeney; 

Green,  grey  and  green  the  marshes  creep. 

To  where  the  grey  north  waters  leap 
By  dead  and  silent  Blakeney. 

And  Time  is  dead  at  Blakeney — 
In  old,  forgotten  Blakeney; 

What  care  they  for  Time's  Scythe  or  Glass, 

Who  do  not  feel  the  hours  pass. 
Who  sleep  in  sea-worn  Blakeney ? 

By  the  old  grey  church  in  Blakeney, 

By  quenched  turret  light  in  Blakeney, 
They  slumber  deep,  they  do  not  know. 
If  Life's  told  tale  is  Death  and  Woe; 

Through  all  eternity. 

But  Love  still  lives  at  Blakeney, 

'Tis  graven  deep  at  Blakeney; 

Of  Love  which  seeks  beyond  the  grave. 

Of  Love's  sad  faith  which  fain  would  save — 

The  headstones  tell  the  story. 

Grave-grasses  grow  at  Blakeney 
Sea  pansies,  sedge,  and  rosemary; 

Frail  fronds  thrust  forth  in  dim  dank  air, 

A  message  from  those  lying  there: 
Wan  leaves  of  memory. 

I  send  you  this  from  Blakeney — 
From  distant,  dreaming  Blakeney; 

Love  and  Remembrance:  These  are  sure; 
Though  Death  is  strong  they  shall  endure, 
Till  all  things  cease  to  be. 

Blakeney,  A.  J.  R. 

Norfolk. 


15210S3 


PREFACE 

As  the  scenes  of  this  story  are  laid  in  a  part  of  Nor- 
folk which  will  be  readily  identified  by  many  Norfolk 
people,  it  is  perhaps  well  to  state  that  all  the  personages 
are  fictitious,  and  that  the  Norfolk  police  officials  who 
appear  in  the  book  have  no  existence  outside  these  pages. 
They  and  the  other  characters  are  drawn  entirely  from 
imagination. 

To  East  Anglian  readers  I  offer  my  apologies  for  any 
faults  there  may  be  in  reproducing  the  Norfolk  dialect. 
My  excuse  is  the  fascination  the  language  produced  on 
myself,  and  that  it  is  as  essential  to  the  scene  of  the 
story  as  the  marshes  and  the  sea.  Though  I  have  found 
it  impossible  to  transliterate  the  pronunciation  into  the 
ordinary  English  alphabet,  I  hope  I  have  been  able  to  con- 
vey enough  of  the  characteristic  speech  of  the  native  to 
enable  those  familiar  with  it  to  put  it  for  themselves 
into  the  accents  of  their  own  people.  To  those  who  are 
not  familiar  with  the  dialect,  I  can  only  say,  "Go  and 
study  this  relic  of  old  English  in  that  remote  part  of 
the  country  where  the  story  is  laid,  where  the  ghosts  of 
a  ruined  past  mingle  with  the  primitive  survivors  of 
to-day,  who  walk  very  near  the  unseen." 

A.  J.  R. 
LONDON 


THE     SHRIEKING    PIT 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 


CHAPTER  I 

COLWYN  had  never  seen  anything  quite  so  eccentric  in 
a  public  room  as  the  behaviour  of  the  young  man  break- 
fasting alone  at  the  alcove  table  in  the  bay  embrasure, 
and  he  became  so  absorbed  in  watching  him  that  he  per- 
mitted his  own  meal  to  grow  cold,  impatiently  waving 
away  the  waiter  who  sought  with  obtrusive  obsequious- 
ness to  recall  his  wandering  attention  by  thrusting  the 
menu  card  before  him. 

To  outward  seeming  the  occupant  of  the  alcove  table 
was  a  good-looking  young  man,  whose  clear  blue  eyes, 
tanned  skin  and  well-knit  frame  indicated  the  truly 
national  product  of  common  sense,  cold  water,  and  out- 
of-door  pursuits ;  of  a  wholesomely  English  if  not  mark- 
edly intellectual  type,  pleasant  to  look  at,  and  unmis- 
takably of  good  birth  and  breeding.  When  a  young  man 
of  this  description,  your  fellow  guest  at  a  fashionable 
seaside  hotel,  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  giving  you 
a  courteous  nod  on  his  morning  journey  across  the  archi- 
pelago of  snowy-topped  tables  under  the  convoy  of  the 
head  waiter  to  his  own  table,  comes  in  to  breakfast  with 
shaking  hands,  flushed  face,  and  passes  your  table  with 
unseeing  eyes,  you  would  probably  conclude  that  he  was 
under  the  influence  of  liquor,  and  in  your  English  way 
you  would  severely  blame  him,  not  so  much  for  the  moral 
turpitude  involved  in  his  excess  as  for  the  bad  taste 
which  prompted  him  to  show  himself  in  public  in  such  a 

U 


12  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

condition.  If,  on  reaching  his  place,  the  young  man's 
conduct  took  the  additional  extravagant  form  of  picking 
up  a  table-knife  and  sticking  it  into  the  table  in  front 
of  him,  you  would  probably  enlarge  your  previous  con- 
clusion by  admitting  the  hypotheses  of  drugs  or  de- 
mentia to  account  for  such  remarkable  behaviour. 

All  these  things  were  done  by  the  young  man  at  the 
alcove  table  in  the  breakfast  room  of  the  Grand  Hotel, 
Durrington,  on  an  October  morning  in  the  year  1916; 
but  Colwyn,  who  was.  only  half  an  Englishman,  and, 
moreover,  had  an  original  mind,  did  not  attribute  them 
to  drink,  morphia,  or  madness.  Colwyn  flattered  himself 
that  he  knew  the  outward  signs  of  these  diseases  too  well 
to  be  deceived  into  thinking  that  the  splendid  specimen 
of  young  physical  manhood  at  the  far  table  was  the  vic- 
tim of  any  of  them.  His  own  impression  was  that 
it  was  a  case  of  shell-shock.  It  was  true  that,  apart  from 
the  doubtful  evidence  of  a  bronzed  skin  and  upright 
frame,  there  was  nothing  about  him  to  suggest  that  he 
had  been  a  soldier:  no  service  lapel  or  regimental  badge 
in  his  grey  Norfolk  jacket.  But  an  Englishman  of  his 
class  would  be  hardly  likely  to  wear  either  once  he  had 
left  the  Army.  It  was  almost  certain  that  he  must  have 
seen  service  in  the  war,  and  by  no  means  improbable  that 
he  had  been  bowled  over  by  shell-shock,  like  many  thou- 
sands more  of  equally  splendid  specimens  of  young  man- 
hood. Any  other  conclusion  to  account  for  the  strange 
condition  of  a  young  man  like  him  seemed  unworthy  and 
repellent. 

"It  must  be  shell-shock,  and  a  very  bad  case — probably 
supposed  to  be  cured,  and  sent  up  here  to  recuperate," 
thought  Colwyn.  "Ill  keep  an  eye  on  him." 

As  Colwyn  resumed  his  breakfast  it  occurred  to  him 
that  some  of  the  other  guests  might  have  been  alarmed 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  13 

by  the  young  man's  behaviour,  and  he  cast  his  eyes  round 
the  room  to  see  if  anybody  had  noticed  anything. 

There  were  about  thirty  guests  in  the  big  breakfast 
apartment,  which  had  been  built  to  accommodate  five 
times  the  number — a  charming,  luxuriously  furnished 
place,  with  massive  white  pillars  supporting  a  frescoed 
ceiling,  and  lighted  by  numerous  bay  windows  opening 
on  to  the  North  Sea,  which  was  sparkling  brightly  in  a 
brilliant  October  sunshine.  The  thirty  people  comprised 
the  whole  of  the  hotel  visitors,  for  in  the  year  1916 
holiday  seekers  preferred  some  safer  resort  than  a  part 
of  the  Norfolk  coast  which  lay  in  the  track  of  enemy 
airships  seeking  a  way  to  London. 

Two  nights  before  a  Zeppelin  had  dropped  a  couple 
of  bombs  on  the  Durrington  front,  and  the  majority  of 
hotel  visitors  had  departed  by  the  next  morning's  train, 
disregarding  the  proprietor's  assurance  that  the  affair 
was  a  pure  accident,  a  German  oversight  which  was  not 
likely  to  happen  again.  Off  the  nervous  ones  went,  and 
left  the  big  hotel,  the  long  curved  seafront,  the  miles  of 
yellow  sand,  the  high  green  headlands,  the  best  golf-links 
in  the  East  of  England,  and  all  the  other  attractions  men- 
tioned in  the  hotel  advertisements,  to  a  handful  of  people, 
who  were  too  nerve-proof,  lazy,  fatalistic,  or  indifferent 
to  bother  about  Zeppelins. 

These  thirty  guests,  scattered  far  and  wide  over  the 
spacious  isolation  of  the  breakfast-room,  in  twos  and 
threes,  and  little  groups,  seemed,  with  one  exception,  too 
engrossed  in  the  solemn  British  rite  of  beginning  the  day 
well  with  a  good  breakfast  to  bother  their  heads  about 
the  antics  of  the  young  man  at  the  alcove  table.  They 
were,  for  the  most  part,  characteristic  war-time  holiday- 
makers:  the  men,  obviously  above  military  age,  in  Nor- 
folk tweeds  or  golf  suits;  two  young  officers  at  a  table 


14  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

by  the  window,  and — as  indifference  to  Zeppelins  is  not 
confined  to  the  sterner  sex — a  sprinkling  of  ladies,  plump 
and  matronly,  or  of  the  masculine  walking  type,  with  two 
charmingly  pretty  girls  and  a  gay  young  war  widow  to 
leaven  the  mass. 

The  exception  was  a  tall  and  portly  gentleman  with  a 
slightly  bald  head,  glossy  brown  beard,  gold-rimmed 
eye-glasses  perilously  balanced  on  a  prominent  nose,  and 
an  important  manner.  He  was  breakfasting  alone  at  a 
tabk  not  far  from  Colwyn's,  and  Colwyn  noticed  that  he 
kept  glancing  at  the  alcove  table  where  the  young  man 
sat.  As  Colwyn  looked  in  his  direction  their  eyes  met, 
and  the  portly  gentleman  nodded  portentously  in  the 
direction  of  the  alcove  table,  as  an  indication  that  he 
also  had  been  watching  the  curious  behaviour  of  the 
occupant.  A  moment  afterwards  he  got  up  and  walked 
across  to  the  pillar  against  which  Colwyn's  table  was 
placed. 

"Will  you  permit  me  to  take  a  seat  at  your  table  ?"  he 
remarked  urbanely.  "I  am  afraid  we  are  going  to  have 
trouble  over  there  directly,"  he  added,  sinking  his  voice 
as  he  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  distant  alcove  table. 
"We  may  have  to  act  promptly.  Nobody  else  seems  to 
have  noticed  anything.  We  can  watch  him  from  behind 
this  pillar  without  his  seeing  us." 

Colwyn  nodded  in  return  with  a  quick  comprehension 
of  all  the  other's  speech  implied,  and  pushed  a  chair 
towards  his  visitor,  who  sat  down  and  resumed  his  watch 
of  the  young  man  at  the  alcove  table.  Colwyn  bestowed 
a  swift  glance  on  his  companion  which  took  in  every- 
thing. The  tall  man  in  glasses  looked  too  human  for  a 
lawyer,  too  intelligent  for  a  schoolmaster,  and  too  well- 
dressed  for  an  ordinary  medical  man.  Colwyn,  versed 
in  judging  men  swiftly  from  externals,  noting  the  urbane, 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  15 

somewhat  pompous  face,  the  authoritative,  professional 
pose,  the  well-shaped,  plump  white  hands,  and  the  general 
air  of  well-being  and  prosperity  which  exuded  from  the 
whole  man,  placed  him  as  a  successful  practitioner  in  the 
more  lucrative  path  of  medicine — probably  a  fashionable 
Harley  Street  specialist. 

Colwyn  returned  to  his  scrutiny  of  the  young  man  at 
the  alcove  table,  and  he  and  his  companion  studied  him 
intently  for  some  time  in  silence.  But  the  young  man, 
for  the  moment,  was  comparatively  quiet,  gazing  moodily 
through  the  open  window  over  the  waters  of  the  North 
Sea,  an  untasted  sole  in  front  of  him,  and  an  impassive 
waiter  pouring  out  his  coffee  as  though  the  spectacle  of  a 
young  man  sticking  a  knife  into  the  table-cloth  was  a 
commonplace  occurrence  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  and  all 
in  the  day's  doings.  When  the  waiter  had  finished  pour- 
ing out  the  coffee  and  noiselessly  departed,  the  young 
man  tasted  it  with  an  indifferent  air,  pushed  it  from  him, 
and  resumed  his  former  occupation  of  staring  out  of  the 
window. 

"He  seems  quiet  enough  now,"  observed  Colwyn,  turn- 
ing to  his  companion.  "What  do  you  think  is  the  matter 
with  him — shell-shock?" 

"I  would  not  care  to  hazard  a  definite  opinion  on  so 
cursory  an  observation,"  returned  the  other,  in  a  dry, 
reticent,  ultra-professional  manner.  "But  I  will  go  so 
far  as  to  say  that  I  do  not  think  it  is  a  case  of  shell- 
shock.  If  it  is  what  I  suspect,  that  first  attack  was  the 
precursor  of  another,  possibly  a  worse  attack.  Ha !  it  is 
commencing.  Look  at  his  thumb — that  is  the  danger 
signal  1" 

Colwyn  looked  across  the  room  again.  The  young 
man  was  still  sitting  in  the  same  posture,  with  his  gaze 
bent  on  the  open  sea.  His  left  hand  was  extended  rigidly 


16  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

on  the  table  in  front  of  him,  with  the  thumb,  extended 
at  right  angles,  oscillating  rapidly  in  a  peculiar  manner. 

"This  attack  may  pass  away  like  the  other,  but  if  he 
looks  round  at  anybody,  and  makes  the  slightest  move, 
we  must  secure  him  immediately,"  said  Colwyn's  com- 
panion, speaking  in  a  whisper. 

He  had  barely  finished  speaking  when  the  young  man 
turned  his  head  from  the  open  window  and  fixed  his 
blue  eyes  vacantly  on  the  table  nearest  him,  where  an 
elderly  clergyman,  a  golfing  friend,  and  their  wives,  were 
breakfasting  together.  With  a  swift  movement  the  young 
man  got  up,  and  started  to  walk  towards  this  table. 

Colwyn,  who  was  watching  every  movement  of  the 
young  man  closely,  could  not  determine,  then  or  after- 
wards, whether  he  meditated  an  attack  on  the  occupants 
of  the  next  table,  or  merely  intended  to  leave  the  break- 
fast room.  The  clergyman's  table  was  directly  in  front  of 
the  alcove  and  in  a  line  with  the  pair  of  swinging  glass 
doors  which  were  the  only  exit  from  the  breakfast-room. 
But  Colwyn's  companion  did  not  wait  for  the  matter 
to  be  put  to  the  test.  At  the  first  movement  of  the  young 
man  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and,  without  waiting  to  see 
whether  Colwyn  was  following  him,  raced  across  the 
room  and  caught  the  young  man  by  the  arm  while  he 
was  yet  some  feet  away  from  the  clergyman's  table.  The 
young  man  struggled  desperately  in  his  grasp  for  some 
moments,  then  suddenly  collapsed  and  fell  inert  in  the 
other's  arms.  Colwyn  walked  over  to  the  spot  in  time 
to  see  his  portly  companion  lay  the  young  man  down  on 
the  carpet  and  bend  over  to  loosen  his  collar. 

The  young  man  lay  apparently  unconscious  on  the 
floor,  breathing  stertorously,  with  convulsed  features  and 
closed  eyes.  After  the  lapse  of  some  minutes  he  opened 
his  eyes,  glanced  listlessly  at  the  circle  of  frightened 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  17 

people  who  had  gathered  around  him,  and  feebly  en- 
deavoured to  sit  up.  Colwyn's  companion,  who  was 
bending  over  him  feeling  his  heart,  helped  him  to  a  sitting 
posture,  and  then,  glancing  at  the  faces  crowded  around, 
exclaimed  in  a  sharp  voice: 

"He  wants  air.    Please  move  back  there  a  little." 

"Certainly,  Sir  Henry."  It  was  a  stout  man  in  a  check 
golfing  suit  who  spoke.  "But  the  ladies  are  very  anxious 
to  know  if  it  is  anything  serious." 

"No,  no.  He  will  be  quite  all  right  directly.  Just  fall 
back,  and  give  him  more  air.  Here,  you"! — this  to  one 
of  the  gaping  waiters — "just  slip  across  to  the  office 
and  find  out  the  number  of  this  gentleman's  room." 

The  waiter  hurried  away  and  speedily  returned  with 
the  proprietor  of  the  hotel,  a  little  man  in  check  trousers 
and  a  frock  coat,  with  a  bald  head  and  an  anxious,  yet  re- 
signed eye  which  was  obviously  prepared  for  the  worst. 
His  demeanour  was  that  of  a  man  who,  already  over- 
loaded by  misfortune,  was  bracing  his  sinews  to  bear  the 
last  straw.  As  he  approached  the  group  near  the  alcove 
table  he  smoothed  his  harassed  features  into  an  expres- 
sion of  solicitude,  and,  addressing  himself  to  the  man 
who  was  supporting  the  young  man  on  the  floor,  said,  in 
a  voice  intended  to  be  sympathetic, 

"I  thought  I  had  better  come  myself,  Sir  Henry.  I 
could  not  understand  from  Antoine  what  you  wanted  or 
what  had  happened.  Antoine  said  something  about  some- 
body dying  in  the  breakfast-room " 

"Nothing  of  the  sort!"  snapped  the  gentleman  ad- 
dressed as  Sir  Henry,  shifting  his  posture  a  little  so  as 
to  enable  the  young  man  to  lean  against  his  shoulder. 
"Haven't  you  eyes  in  your  head,  Willsden  ?  Cannot  you 
see  for  yourself  that  this  gentleman  has  merely  had  a 
fainting  fit?" 


&8  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"I'm  delighted  to  hear  it,  Sir  Henry,"  replied  the  hotel 
proprietor.  But  his  face  expressed  no  visible  gratifica- 
tion. To  a  man  who  had  had  his  hotel  emptied  by  a 
Zeppelin  raid  the  difference  between  a  single  guest 
fainting  instead  of  dying  was  merely  infinitesimal. 

"Who  is  this  gentleman,  and  what's  the  number  of  his 
room?"  continued  Sir  Henry.  "He  will  be  better  lying 
quietly  on  his  bed." 

"His  name  is  Ronald,  and  his  room  is  No.  32 — on  the 
first  floor,  Sir  Henry." 

"Very  good.    I'll  take  him  up  there  at  once." 

"Shall  I  help  you,  Sir  Henry?  Perhaps  he  could  be 
carried  up.  One  of  the  waiters  could  take  his  feet,  or 
perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  have  two." 

"There's  not  the  slightest  necessity.  He'll  be  able  to 
walk  in  a  minute — with  a  little  assistance.  Ah,  that's 
better!"  The  abrupt  manner  in  which  Sir  Henry  ad- 
dressed the  hotel  proprietor  insensibly  softened  itself  into 
the  best  bedside  manner  when  he  spoke  to  the  patient  on 
the  carpet,  who,  from  a  sitting  posture,  was  now  en- 
deavouring to  struggle  to  his  feet.  "You  think  you  can 
get  up,  eh?  Well,  it  won't  do  you  any  harm.  That's 
the  way!"  Sir  Henry  assisted  the  young  man  to  rise, 
and  supported  him  with  his  arm.  "Now,  the  next  thing 
is  to  get  him  to  his  room.  No,  no,  not  you,  Willsden — 
you're  too  small.  Where's  that  gentleman  I  was  sitting 
with  a  few  minutes  ago?  Ah,  thank  you" — as  Colwyn 
stepped  forward  and  took  the  other  arm — "now,  let  us 
take  him  gently  upstairs." 

The  young  man  allowed  himself  to  be  led  away  with- 
out resistance.  He  walked,  or  rather  stumbled,  along 
between  his  guides  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  Colwyn  no- 
ticed that  his  eyes  were  half -closed,  and  that  his  head 
sagged  slightly  from  side  to  side  as  he  was  led  along 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  19 

A  waiter  held  open  the  glass  doors  which  led  into  the 
lounge,  and  a  palpitating  chambermaid,  hastily  summoned 
from  the  upper  regions,  tripped  ahead  up  the  broad  car- 
peted stairs  and  along  the  passage  to  show  the  way  to  the 
young  man's  bedroom. 


CHAPTER  II 

SIR  HENRY  dismissed  the  chambermaid  at  the  door, 
and  Colwyn  and  he  lifted  the  young  man  on  to  the  bed. 
He  lay  like  a  man  in  a  stupor,  breathing  heavily,  his 
face  flushed,  his  eyes  nearly  closed.  Sir  Henry  drew  up 
the  blind,  and  by  the  additional  light  examined  him  thor- 
oughly, listening  closely  to  the  action  of  his  heart,  and 
examining  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  by  rolling  back  the  upper 
lid  with  some  small  instrument  he  took  from  his  pocket. 

"He'll  do  now,"  he  said,  after  loosening  the  patient's 
clothes  for  his  greater  comfort.  "He'll  come  to  in  about 
five  minutes,  and  may  be  all  right  again  shortly  after- 
wards. But  there  are  certain  peculiar  features  about  this 
case  which  are  new  in  my  experience,  and  rather  alarm 
me.  Certainly  the  young  man  ought  not  to  be  left  to 
himself.  His  friends  should  be  sent  for.  Do  you  know 
anything  about  him?  Is  he  staying  at  the  hotel  alone? 
I  only  arrived  here  last  night." 

"I  believe  he  is  staying  at  the  hotel  alone.  He  has 
been  here  for  a  fortnight  or  more,  and  I  have  never  seen 
him  speak  to  anybody,  though  I  have  exchanged  nods 
with  him  every  morning.  His  principal  recreation  seems 
to  be  in  taking  long  solitary  walks  along  the  coast.  He 
has  been  in  the  habit  of  going  out  every  day,  and  not  re- 
turning until  dinner  is  half  over.  Perhaps  the  hotel  pro- 
prietor knows  who  his  friends  are." 

"Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  step  downstairs  and  in- 
quire ?  I  do  not  wish  to  leave  him,  but  his  friends  should 
be  telegraphed  to  at  once  and  asked  to  come  and  take 
charge  of  him." 

20 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  21 

"Certainly.  And  I'll  send  the  telegram  while  I  am 
down  there." 

But  Colwyn  returned  in  a  few  moments  to  say  that  the 
hotel  proprietor  knew  nothing  of  his  guest.  He  had 
never  stayed  in  the  house  before,  and  he  had  booked  his 
room  by  a  trunk  call  from  London.  On  arrival  he  had 
filled  in  the  registration  paper  in  the  name  of  James 
Ronald,  but  had  left  blank  the  spaces  for  his  private  and 
business  addresses.  He  looked  such  a  gentleman  that  the 
proprietor  had  not  ventured  to  draw  his  attention  to  the 
omissions. 

"Another  instance  of  how  hotels  neglect  to  comply 
with  the  requirements  of  the  Defence  of  the  Realm  Act !" 
exclaimed  Sir  Henry.  "Really,  it  is  very  awkward.  I 
hardly  know,  in  the  circumstances,  how  to  act.  Speak- 
ing as  a  medical  man,  I  say  that  he  should  not  be  left 
alone,  but  if  he  orders  us  out  of  his  room  when  he  re- 
covers his  senses  what  are  we  to  do?  Can  you  suggest 
anything?"  He  shot  a  keen  glance  at  his  companion. 

"I  should  be  in  a  better  position  to  answer  you  if  I 
knew  what  you  consider  him  to  be  really  suffering  from. 
I  was  under  the  impression  it  was  a  bad  case  of  shell- 
shock,  but  your  remarks  suggest  that  it  is  something 
worse.  May  I  ask,  as  you  are  a  medical  man,  what  you 
consider  the  nature  of  his  illness?" 

Sir  Henry  bestowed  another  searching  glance  on  the 
speaker.  He  noted,  for  the  first  time,  the  keen  alertness 
and  intellectuality  of  the  other's  face.  It  was  a  fine 
strong  face,  with  a  pair  of  luminous  grey  eyes,  a  likeable 
long  nose,  and  clean-shaven,  humorous  mouth — a  man 
to  trust  and  depend  upon. 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  do,"  said  Sir  Henry,  after  a 
lengthy  pause,  which  he  had  evidently  devoted  to  con- 
sidering the  wisdom  of  acceding  to  his  companion's  re- 


22  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

quest.  "This  gentleman  has  not  consulted  me  profession- 
ally, and  I  hardly  feel  justified  in  confiding  my  hurried 
and  imperfect  diagnosis  of  his  case,  without  his  knowl- 
edge, to  a  perfect  stranger.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are 
reasons  why  somebody  should  know,  if  we  are  to  help 
him  in  his  weak  state.  Perhaps,  sir,  if  you  told  me  your 
name " 

"Certainly :  my  name  is  Colwyn — David  Colwyn." 

"You  are  the  famous  American  detective  of  that 
name  ?" 

"You  are  good  enough  to  say  so." 

"Why  not?  Who  has  not  heard  of  you,  and  your 
skill  in  the  unravelling  of  crime  ?  There  are  many  people 
on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  who  regard  you  as  a  public 
benefactor.  But  I  am  surprised.  You  do  not  at  all 
resemble  my  idea  of  Colwyn." 

"Why  not?" 

"You  do  not  talk  like  an  American,  for  one  thing." 

"You  forget  I  have  been  over  here  long  enough  to 
learn  the  language.  Besides,  I  am  half  English." 

Sir  Henry  laughed  good-humouredly. 

"That's  a  fair  answer,  Mr.  Colwyn.  Of  course,  your 
being  Colwyn  alters  the  question.  I  have  no  hesitation 
in  confiding  in  you.  I  am  Sir  Henry  Durwood — no  doubt 
you  have  heard  of  me.  Naturally,  I  have  to  be  careful." 

Colwyn  looked  at  his  companion  with  renewed  interest. 
Who  had  not  heard  of  Sir  Henry  Durwood,  the  nerve 
specialist  whose  cures  had  made  his  name  a  household 
word  amongst  the  most  exclusive  women  in  England, 
and,  incidentally,  won  him  a  knighthood?  There  were 
professional  detractors  who  declared  that  Sir  Henry  had 
climbed  into  the  heaven  of  Harley  Street  and  fat  fees  by 
the  ladder  of  social  influence  which  a  wealthy,  well-born 
wife  had  provided,  with  no  qualifications  of  his  own  ex- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  23 

cept  "the  best  bedside  manner  in  England"  and  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  weaknesses  of  the  feminine  tempera- 
ment. But  his  admirers — and  they  were  legion — declared 
that  Sir  Henry  Durwood  was  the  only  man  in  London 
who  really  understood  how  to  treat  the  complex  nervous 
system  of  the  present  generation.  These  thoughts  ran 
through  Colwyn's  mind  as  he  murmured  that  the  opinion 
of  such  an  eminent  specialist  as  Sir  Henry  Durwood 
on  the  case  before  them  must  naturally  outweigh  his  own. 

"You  are  very  good  to  say  so."  Sir  Henry  spoke  as 
though  the  tribute  were  no  more  than  his  due.  "In  my 
opinion,  the  symptoms  of  this  young  man  point  to 
epilepsy,  and  his  behaviour  downstairs  was  due  to  a 
seizure  from  which  he  is  slowly  recovering." 

"Epilepsy !    Haut  or  petit  mal  ?" 

"The  lesser  form — petit  mal,  in  my  opinion." 

"But  are  his  symptoms  consistent  with  the  form  of 
epilepsy  known  as  petit  mal,  Sir  Henry?  I  thought  in 
that  lesser  form  of  the  disease  the  victim  merely  suffered 
from  slight  seizures  of  transient  unconsciousness,  with- 
out convulsions,  regaining  control  of  himself  after  losing 
himself,  to  speak  broadly,  for  a  few  seconds  or  so." 

"Ah,  I  see  you  know  something  of  the  disease.  That 
simplifies  matters.  The  layman's  mind  is  usually  at  sea 
when  it  comes  to  discussing  a  complicated  affection  of 
the  nervous  system  like  epilepsy.  You  are  more  or  less 
right  in  your  definition  of  petit  mal.  But  that  is  the 
simple  form,  without  complications.  In  this  case  there 
are  complications,  in  my  opinion.  I  should  say  that  this 
young  man's  attack  was  combined  with  the  form  of 
epilepsy  known  as  furor  epilepticus." 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  getting  beyond  my  depth,  Sir 
Henry.  What  is  furor  epilepticus?" 

"It  is  a  term  applied  to  the  violence  sometimes  dis- 


24  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

played  by  the  patient  during  an  attack  of  petit  mal.  The 
manifestation  is  extreme  violence — usually  much  greater 
than  in  violent  anger,  as  a  rule." 

"I  believe  there  are  cases  on  record  of  epileptics  hav- 
ing committed  the  most  violent  outrages  against  those 
nearest  and  dearest  to  them.  Is  that  what  you  mean  by 
furor  epilepticus?" 

"Yes;  but  that  attacks  are  generally  directed  to- 
wards strangers — rarely  towards  loved  ones,  though  there 
have  been  such  cases." 

"I  begin  to  understand.  When  we  were  at  the  break- 
fast table  your  professional  eye  diagnosed  this  young 
man's  symptoms — his  nervous  tremors,  his  excitability, 
and  the  extravagant  action  with  the  knife — as  premoni- 
tory symptoms  of  an  attack  of  furor  epilepticus,  in  which 
the  sufferer  would  be  liable  to  a  dangerous  outburst  of 
violence  ?" 

"Exactly.  The  minor  symptoms  suggested  petit  mal, 
but  the  act  of  sticking  the  knife  into  the  table  pointed 
strongly  to  the  complication  of  furor  epilepticus.  That 
was  why  I  went  over  to  your  table  to  have  your  assistance 
in  case  of  trouble." 

"You  feared  he  would  attack  one  of  the  guests  ?" 

'Yes,  epileptics  are  extremely  dangerous  in  that  con- 
dition, and  will  commit  murder  if  they  are  in  possession 
of  a  weapon.  There  have  been  cases  in  which  they 
have  succeeded  in  killing  the  victims  of  their  fury." 

"Without  being  conscious  of  it?" 

"Without  being  conscious  of  it  then  or  afterwards. 
After  the  patient  recovers  from  one  of  these  attacks  his 
mind  is  generally  a  complete  blank,  but  occasionally  he 
will  have  a  troubled  or  confused  sense  of  something 
having  happened  to  him — like  a  man  awakened  from  a 
bad  dream,  which  he  cannot  recall.  This  young  man 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  25 

may  come  to  his  senses  without  remembering  anything 
which  occurred  downstairs,  or  he  may  be  vaguely 
alarmed,  and  ask  a  number  of  questions.  In  either  case, 
it  will  be  some  time — from  half  an  hour  to  several  hours 
— before  his  mind  begins  to  work  normally  again." 

"Do  you  think  it  was  his  intention,  when  he  got  up 
from  his  table,  to  attack  the  group  at  the  table  nearest  him 
— that  elderly  clergyman  and  his  party?" 

"I  think  it  highly  probable  that  he  would  have  attacked 
the  first  person  within  his  reach — that  is  why  I  wanted 
to  prevent  him." 

"But  he  didn't  carry  the  knife  with  him  from  his 
table." 

"My  dear  sir" — Sir  Henry's  voice  conveyed  the  proper 
amount  of  professional  superiority — "you  speak  as 
though  you  thought  a  victim  of  furor  epilepticus  was  a 
rational  being.  He  is  nothing  of  the  kind.  While  the 
attack  lasts  he  is  an  uncontrollable  maniac,  not  respon- 
sible for  his  actions  in  the  slightest  degree." 

"But,  if  he  is  capable  of  conceiving  the  idea  of  attack- 
ing his  fellow  creatures,  surely  he  is  capable  of  picking 
up  a  knife  for  the  purpose,  particularly  when  he  has  just 
previously  had  one  in  his  hand  ?"  urged  Colwyn.  "I  have 
no  intention  of  setting  up  my  opinion  against  yours,  Sir 
Henry,  but  there  are  certain  aspects  of  this  young  man's 
illness  which  are  not  altogether  consistent  with  my  own 
experience  of  epileptics.  As  a  criminologist,  I  have  given 
some  study  to  the  effect  of  epilepsy  and  other  nervous 
diseases  on  the  criminal  temperament.  For  instance,  this 
young  man  did  not  give  the  usual  cry  of  an  epileptic  when 
he  sprang  up  from  the  table.  And  if  it  is  merely  an  at- 
tack of  petit  mal,  why  is  he  so  long  in  recovering  con- 
sciousness ?" 

"The  so-called  epileptic  cry  is  not  invariably  present, 


26  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

and  petit  mal  is  sometimes  the  half-way  house  to  haut 
mal,"  responded  Sir  Henry.  "I  have  said  that  this  case 
presents  several  unusual  features,  but,  in  my  opinion, 
there  is  nothing  absolutely  inconsistent  with  epilepsy, 
combined  with  furor  epilepticus.  And  here  is  one  symp- 
tom rarely  found  in  any  fit  except  an  epileptic  seizure." 
The  specialist  pointed  to  a  faint  fleck  of  foam  which 
showed  beneath  the  young  man's  brown  moustache. 

Colwyn  bent  over  him  and  wiped  his  lips  with  his 
handkerchief.  As  he  did  so  the  young  man's  eyes  un- 
closed. He  regarded  Colwyn  languidly  for  a  moment  or 
two,  and  then  sat  upright  on  the  bed. 

"Who  are  you  ?"  he  exclaimed. 

"It's  quite  all  right,  Mr.  Ronald,"  said  the  specialist, 
in  his  most  soothing  bedside  manner.  ''Just  take  things 
easily.  You  have  been  ill,  but  you  are  almost  yourself 
again.  Let  me  feel  your  pulse — ha,  very  good  indeed! 
We  will  have  you  on  your  legs  in  no  time." 

The  young  man  verified  the  truth  of  the  latter  pre- 
diction by  springing  off  his  bed  and  regarding  his  visitors 
keenly.  There  was  now,  at  all  events,  no  lack  of  sanity 
and  intelligence  in  his  gaze. 

"What  has  happened?    How  did  I  get  here?" 

"You  fainted,  and  we  brought  you  up  to  your  room," 
interposed  Colwyn  tactfully,  before  Sir  Henry  could 
speak. 

"Awfully  kind  of  you.  I  remember  now.  I  felt  a  bit 
seedy  as  I  went  downstairs,  but  I  thought  it  would  pass 
off.  I  don't  remember  much  more  about  it.  I  hope  I 
didn't  make  too  much  of  an  ass  of  myself  before  the 
others,  going  off  like  a  girl  in  that  way.  You  must  have 
had  no  end  of  a  bother  in  dragging  me  upstairs — very 
good  of  you  to  take  the  trouble."  He  smiled  faintly,  and 
produced  a  cigarette  case. 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  27 

"How  do  you  feel  now?"  asked  Sir  Henry  Durwood 
solemnly,  disregarding  the  proffered  case. 

"A  bit  as  though  I'd  been  kicked  on  the  top  of  the  head 
by  a  horse,  but  it'll  soon  pass  off.  Fact  is,  I  got  a  touch 
of  sun  when  I  was  out  there" — he  waved  his  hand 
vaguely  towards  the  East — "and  it  gives  me  a  bit  of 
trouble  at  times.  But  I'll  be  all  right  directly.  I'm  sorry 
to  have  given  you  so  much  trouble." 

He  proffered  this  explanation  with  an  easy  courtesy, 
accompanied  by  a  slight  deprecating  smile  which  admir- 
ably conveyed  the  regret  of  a  well-bred  man  for  having 
given  trouble  to  strangers.  It  was  difficult  to  reconcile 
his  self-control  with  his  previous  extravagance  down- 
stairs. But  to  Colwyn  it  was  apparent  that  his  com- 
posure was  simulated,  the  effort  of  a  sensitive  man  who 
had  betrayed  a  weakness  to  strangers,  for  the  fingers 
which  held  a  cigarette  trembled  slightly,  and  there  were 
troubled  shadows  in  the  depths  of  the  dark  blue  eyes. 
Colwyn  admired  the  young  man's  pluck — he  would  wish 
to  behave  the  same  way  himself  in  similar  circumstances, 
he  felt — and  he  realised  that  the  best  service  he  and  Sir 
Henry  Durwood  could  render  their  fellow  guest  was  to 
leave  him  alone. 

But  Sir  Henry  was  far  from  regarding  the  matter 
in  the  same  light.  As  a  doctor  he  was  more  at  home  in 
other  people's  bedrooms  than  his  own,  for  rumour  whis- 
pered that  Lady  Durwood  was  so  jealous  of  her  hus- 
band's professional  privileges  as  a  fashionable  ladies' 
physician  that  she  was  in  the  habit  of  administering 
strong  doses  of  matrimonial  truths  to  him  every  night  at 
home.  Sir  Henry  settled  himself  in  his  chair,  adjusted 
his  eye-glasses  more  firmly  on  his  nose  and  regarded  the 
young  man  standing  by  the  mantelpiece  with  a  bland  pro- 


28  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

fessional  smile,  slightly  dashed  by  the  recollection  that 
he  was  not  receiving  a  fee  for  his  visit. 

"You  have  made  a  good  recovery,  but  you'll  need 
care,"  he  said.  "Speaking  as  a  professional  man — I  am 
Sir  Henry  Durwood — I  think  it  would  be  better  for  you 
if  you  had  somebody  with  you  who  understood  your  case. 
With  your — er — complaint,  it  is  strongly  advisable  that 
you  should  not  be  left  to  the  mercy  of  strangers.  I  would 
advise,  strongly  advise  you,  to  communicate  with  your 
friends.  I  shall  be  only  too  happy  to  do  so  on  your  be- 
half if  you  will  give  me  their  address.  In  the  meantime 
— until  they  arrive — my  advice  to  you  is  to  rest." 

A  look  of  annoyance  flashed  through  the  young  man's 
eyes.  He  evidently  resented  the  specialist's  advice;  in- 
deed, his  glance  plainly  revealed  that  he  regarded  it  as 
a  piece  of  gratuitous  impertinence.  He  answered  coldly : 

"Many  thanks,  Sir  Henry,  but  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to 
look  after  myself." 

"That  is  not  an  uncommon  feature  of  your  complaint," 
said  the  specialist.  An  oracular  shake  of  the  head  con- 
veyed more  than  the  words. 

"What  do  you  imagine  my  complaint,  as  you  term  it,  to 
be  ?"  asked  the  young  man  curtly. 

Colwyn  wondered  whether  even  a  fashionable  physi- 
cian, used  to  the  freedom  with  which  fashionable  ladies 
discussed  their  ailments,  would  have  the  courage  to  tell 
a  stranger  that  he  regarded  him  as  an  epileptic.  The 
matter  was  not  put  to  the  test — perhaps  fortunately — for 
at  that  moment  there  was  a  sharp  tap  at  the  door,  which 
opened  to  admit  a  chambermaid  who  seemed  the  last 
word  in  frills  and  smartness. 

"If  you  please,  Sir  Henry,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  side- 
long glance  at  the  tall  handsome  young  man  by  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  29 

mantelpiece,  "Lady  Durwood  would  be  obliged  if  you 
would  go  to  her  room  at  once." 

It  speaks  well  for  Sir  Henry  Durwood  that  the  physi- 
cian was  instantly  merged  in  the  husband.  "Tell  Lady 
Durwood  I  will  come  at  once,"  he  said.  "You'll  excuse 
me,"  he  added,  with  a  courtly  bow  to  his  patient.  "Per- 
haps— if  you  wish — you  might  care  to  see  me  later." 

"Many  thanks,  Sir  Henry,  but  there  will  be  no  need." 
He  bowed  gravely  to  the  specialist,  but  smiled  cordially 
and  held  out  his  hand  to  Colwyn,  as  the  latter  prepared 
to  follow  Sir  Henry  out  of  the  room.  "I  hope  to  see  you 
later,"  he  said. 

But  when  Colwyn,  after  a  day  spent  on  the  golf-links, 
went  into  the  dining-room  for  dinner  that  evening,  the 
young  man's  place  was  vacant.  After  the  meal  Colwyn 
went  to  the  office  to  inquire  if  Mr.  Ronald  was  still  un- 
well, and  learnt,  to  his  surprise,  that  he  had  departed 
from  the  hotel  an  hour  or  so  after  his  illness. 


CHAPTER  III 

LUNCH  was  over  the  following  day,  and  the  majority 
of  the  hotel  guests  were  assembled  in  the  lounge,  some 
sitting  round  a  log  fire  which  roared  and  crackled  in  the 
old-fashioned  fireplace,  others  wandering  backwards  and 
forwards  to  the  hotel  entrance  to  cast  a  weather  eye  on 
the  black  and  threatening  sky. 

During  the  night  there  had  been  one  of  those  violent 
changes  in  the  weather  with  which  the  denizens  of  the 
British  Isles  are  not  altogether  unfamiliar ;  a  heavy  storm 
had  come  shrieking  down  the  North  Sea,  and  though  the 
rain  had  ceased  about  eleven  o'clock  the  wind  had  blown 
hard  all  night,  and  that  day,  bringing  with  it  from  the 
Arctic  a  driving  sleet  and  the  first  touch  of  bitter,  icy, 
winter  cold. 

The  ladies  of  the  hotel,  who  the  previous  day  had 
paraded  the  front  in  light  summer  frocks,  sat  shivering 
round  the  fire  in  furs ;  and  the  men  walked  up  and  down 
in  little  groups  discussing  the  weather  and  the  war.  The 
golfers  stood  apart  debating,  after  their  wont,  the  pos- 
sibility of  trying  a  round  in  spite  of  the  weather.  The 
elderly  clergyman  was  prepared  to  risk  it  if  he  could  find 
a  partner,  and,  with  the  aid  of  an  umbrella  held  upside 
down,  was  demonstrating  to  an  attentive  circle  the  possi- 
bility of  going  round  the  most  open  course  in  England 
in  the  teeth  of  the  fiercest  gale  that  ever  blew,  provided 
that  a  brassy  was  used  instead  of  a  driver. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  drive  a  ball  with  either  to- 
day," said  one  of  the  doubtful  ones.  "You'd  be  driving 

30 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  31 

right  against  the  wind  for  the  first  four  holes,  and  when 
you  have  the  wind  behind  you  at  the  bend  in  the  cliff  by 
the  fifth,  the  force  of  the  gale  would  probably  carry  your 
ball  half  a  mile  out  to  sea.  These  links  here  are  supposed 
to  be  the  most  exposed  in  England." 

"My  dear  sir,  you  surely  do  not  call  this  a  gak,"  re- 
torted the  clergyman.  "I  have  played  some  of  my  best 
games  in  a  stronger  wind  than  this.  And  as  for  this  be- 
ing the  most  exposed  course  in  England — well,  let  me 
ask  you  one  question:  have  you  ever  played  over  the 
Worthing  course  with  a  strong  northeast  gale — a  gale, 
mind  you,  not  a  wind — sweeping  over  the  Downs  ?" 

"Can't  say  I  have,"  grunted  the  previous  speaker,  a 
tall  cadaverous  man,  wrapped  from  head  to  foot  in  a 
great  grey  ulster,  and  wearing  woollen  gloves.  "In  fact, 
I've  never  been  on  the  Worthing  course." 

"I  thought  not."  The  clergyman's  face  showed  a  golf- 
er's satisfaction  at  having  tripped  a  fellow  player.  "The 
Worthing  course  is  the  worst  country  course  in  England, 
all  up  hill  and  down  dak,  and  full  of  pitfalls  for  those 
who  don't  know  its  peculiarities.  I  had  a  very  remark- 
able experience  there,  last  year,  with  the  crack  local 
player — his  handicap  was  plus  two.  We  played  a  round 
in  a  gale  with  the  wind  whistling  over  the  high  downs 
at  the  rate  of  seventy  or  eighty  miles  an  hour.  My  part- 
ner didn't  want  to  play  at  first  because  of  the  weather, 
but  I  persuaded  him  to  go  round,  and  I  beat  him  by  two 
up  and  four  to  play  solely  by  relying  on  the  brassy  and 
midiron.  He  stuck  to  the  driver,  and  lost  in  consequence. 
I'll  just  show  you  how  the  game  went.  Suppose  the  first 
hole  to  be  just  beyond  the  hall  door  there,  and  you  drive 
off  from  here.  Now,  imagine  that  umbrella  stand — 
would  you  mind  moving  away  a  little  from  it,  sir  ?  Thank 
you — to  be  a  group  of  fir  trees  fully  a  hundred  yards  to 


32  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

the  right  of  the  fairway.  Well,  I  got  a  shot  160  yards 
up  the  fairway  with  a  low  straight  ball  which  never  lifted 
more  than  a  yard  from  the  green,  but  my  opponent,  in- 
stead of  sticking  to  the  brassy,  as  I  did,  preferred  to  use 
his  big  driver,  and  what  do  you  think  happened  to  him? 
The  wind  took  his  ball  clean  over  the  fir  trees." 

The  story  was  interrupted  by  the  sudden  entrance  from 
outside  of  a  young  officer  who  had  been  taking  a  turn  on 
the  front.  He  strode  hurriedly  into  the  lounge,  with  a 
look  of  excitement  on  his  good-humoured  boyish  face, 
and  accosted  the  golfers,  who  happened  to  be  nearest  the 
door. 

"I  say,  you  fellows,  what  do  you  think  has  happened? 
You  remember  that  chap  who  fainted  yesterday  morning  ? 
Well,  he's  wanted  for  committing  a  murder!" 

The  piece  of  news  created  the  sensation  that  its  im- 
parter  had  counted  upon.  "A  murder !"  was  echoed  from 
different  parts  of  the  lounge  in  varying  degrees  of  horror, 
amazement  and  dread,  and  the  majority  of  the  guests 
came  eagerly  crowding  round  to  hear  the  details. 

"Yes,  a  murder!"  repeated  the  young  officer,  with 
relish.  "And,  what's  more,  he  committed  it  after  he  left 
here  yesterday.  He  walked  across  to  some  inn  a  few 
miles  from  here  along  the  coast,  put  up  there  for  the 
night,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night  knifed  some  old 
chap  who  was  staying  there." 

There  was  a  lengthy  pause  while  the  hotel  guests  di- 
gested this  startling  information,  and  endeavoured  to 
register  anew  their  previous  faint  impressions  of  the 
young  man  of  the  alcove  table  in  the  new  light  of  his 
personality  as  an  alleged  murderer.  The  pause  was  fol- 
lowed by  an  excited  hum  of  conversation  and  eager  ques- 
tions, the  ladies  all  talking  at  once. 

"What  a  providential  escape  we  have  all  had!"  ex- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  33 

claimed  the  clergyman's  wife,  her  fresh  comely  face 
turning  pale. 

"That's  just  what  I  said  myself,  madam,  when  I  heard 
the  news,"  replied  the  young  officer. 

"I  presume  this  murderous  young  ruffian  has  been  se- 
cured?" asked  the  clergyman,  who  had  turned  even  paler 
than  his  wife.  "The  police,  I  hope,  have  him  under  ar- 
rest." 

The  young  officer  shook  his  head. 

"He's  shown  them  a  clean  pair  of  heels.  He  may  be 
heading  back  this  way,  for  all  I  know.  There  will  be  a 
hue  and  cry  over  the  whole  of  Norfolk  for  him  by 
to-night,  but  murderers  are  usually  very  crafty,  and  diffi- 
cult to  catch.  I  bet  they  won't  catch  him  before  he  mur- 
ders somebody  else." 

The  men  looked  at  one  another  gravely,  and  some  of 
the  ladies  gave  vent  to  cries  of  alarm,  and  clung  to  their 
husband's  arms.  The  clergyman  turned  angrily  on  the 
man  who  had  brought  the  news. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  blurting  out  a  piece  of  news 
like  this  before  a  number  of  ladies  ?"  he  said  sternly.  "It 
was  imprudent  and  foolish  in  the  last  degree.  You  have 
alarmed  them  exceedingly." 

"Oh,  that's  all  tosh !"  replied  the  other  rudely.  "They 
were  bound  to  hear  of  it  sooner  or  later;  why,  everybody 
on  the  front  is  talking  about  it.  I  thought  you'd  be 
awfully  bucked  to  hear  the  news,  seeing  that  you  were 
sitting  at  the  next  table  to  him  yesterday  morning." 

"Who  gave  you  this  information  ?"  asked  Colwyn,  who 
had  just  come  down  stairs  wearing  a  motor  coat  and 
cap,  and  paused  on  his  way  to  the  door  on  hearing  the 
loud  voices  of  the  excited  group  round  the  young  officer. 

"One  of  the  fishermen  on  the  front.  The  police  con- 
stable at  the  place  where  the  murder  was  committed — • 


34  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

a  little  village  with  some  outlandish  name — came  over 
here  to  report  the  news.  This  is  the  nearest  police  sta- 
tion to  the  spot,  it  seems." 

"But  is  he  quite  certain  that  the  man  who  is  supposed 
to  have  committed  the  murder  is  the  young  man  who 
fainted  yesterday  morning?"  asked  Sir  Henry  Durwood, 
who  had  joined  the  group.  "Has  he  been  positively 
identified?" 

"The  fisherman  tells  me  that  there's  no  doubt  it's  him 
— the  description's  identical.  He  cleared  out  before  the 
murder  was  discovered.  There's  a  rare  hue  and  cry  all 
along  the  coast.  They  are  organising  search  parties. 
There's  one  going  out  from  here  this  afternoon.  I'm 
going  with  it." 

Colwyn  left  the  group  of  hotel  guests,  and  went  to  the 
front  door.  Sir  Henry  Durwood,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, followed  him.  The  detective  was  standing  in  the 
hotel  porch,  thoughtfully  smoking  a  cigar,  and  looking 
out  over  the  raging  sea.  He  nodded  cordially  to  the 
specialist. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  story?"  asked  Sir  Henry. 

"I  was  just  about  to  walk  down  to  the  police  station 
to  make  some  inquiries,"  responded  Colwyn.  "It  is  im- 
possible to  tell  from  that  man's  story  how  much  is  truth 
and  how  much  mere  gossip." 

"I'm  afraid  it's  true  enough,"  replied  Sir  Henry  Dur- 
wood. "You'll  remember  I  warned  him  yesterday  to 
send  for  his  friends.  A  man  in  his  condition  of  health 
should  not  have  been  permitted  to  wander  about  the 
country  unattended.  He  has  probably  had  another  attack 
of  furor  epilepticus,  and  killed  somebody  while  under  its 
influence.  Dear,  dear,  what  a  dreadful  thing!  It  may 
be  said  that  I  should  have  taken  a  firmer  hand  with  him 
yesterday,  but  what  more  could  I  have  done  ?  It's  a  very 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  35 

awkward  situation — veiy.  I  hope  you'll  remember,  Mr. 
Colwyn,  that  I  did  all  that  was  humanly  possibly  for  a 
professional  man  to  do — in  fact,  I  went  beyond  the 
bounds  of  professional  decorum,  in  tendering  advice  to  a 
perfect  stranger.  And  you  will  also  remember  that  what 
I  told  you  about  his  condition  was  in  the  strictest  confi- 
dence. I  should  like  very  much  to  accompany  you  to  the 
police  station,  if  you  have  no  objection — I  feel  strongly 
interested  in  the  case." 

"I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  come,"  replied  the  de- 
tective. 

Colwyn  turned  down  the  short  street  to  the  front, 
where  a  footpath  protected  by  a  hand  rail  had  been  made 
along  the  edge  of  the  cliff  for  the  benefit  of  jaded  London 
visitors  who  wanted  to  get  the  best  value  for  their  money 
in  the  bracing  Norfolk  air.  At  the  present  moment  that 
air,  shrieking  across  the  North  Sea  with  almost  hurri- 
cane force,  was  too  bracing  for  weak  nerves  on  the  ex- 
posed path,  and  it  was  real  hard  work  to  force  a  way, 
even  with  the  help  of  the  handrail,  against  the  wind,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  spray  which  was  flung  up  in  clouds 
from  the  thundering  masses  of  yellow  waves  dashing  at 
the  foot  of  the  cliffs  below.  Sir  Henry  Durwood,  at 
any  rate,  was  very  glad  when  his  companion  turned  away 
from  the  cliffs  into  one  of  the  narrow  tortuous  streets 
running  off  the  front  into  High  Street. 

Colwyn  paused  in  front  of  a  stone  building,  half  way  up 
the  street,  which  displayed  the  words,  "County  Police," 
on  a  board  outside.  Knots  of  people  were  standing  about 
in  the  road — fishermen  in  jerseys  and  seaboots,  some 
women,  and  a  sprinkling  of  children — brought  together 
by  the  news  of  murder,  but  kept  from  encroaching 
on  the  sacred  domain  of  law  and  order  by  a  massive  red- 
faced  country  policeman,  who  stood  at  the  gate  in  an 


36  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

awkward  pose  of  official  dignity,  staring  straight  in  front 
of  him,  ignoring  the  eager  questions  which  were  showered 
on  him  by  the  crowd.  The  group  of  people  nearest  the 
gate  fell  back  a  little  as  they  approached,  and  the  police- 
man on  duty  looked  at  them  inquiringly. 

Colwyn  asked  him  the  name  of  the  officer  in  charge 
of  the  district,  and  received  the  reply  that  it  was  Super- 
intendent Galloway.  The  policeman  looked  somewhat 
doubtful  when  Colwyn  asked  him  to  take  in  his  card  with 
the  request  for  an  interview.  He  compromised  between 
his  determination  to  do  the  right  thing  and  his  desire  not 
to  offend  two  well-dressed  gentlemen  by  taking  Col- 
wyn into  his  confidence. 

"Well,  you  see,  sir,  it's  like  this,"  he  said,  sinking  his 
voice  so  that  his  remarks  should  not  be  heard  by  the  sur- 
rounding rabble.  "I  don't  like  to  interrupt  Superin- 
tendent Galloway  unless  it's  very  important.  The  chief 
constable  is  with  him." 

"Do  you  mean  Mr.  Cromering,  from  Norwich  ?"  asked 
Colwyn. 

The  policeman  nodded. 

"He  came  over  here  by  the  morning  train,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

"Very  good.  I  know  Mr.  Cromering  well.  Will  you 
please  take  this  card  to  the  chief  constable  and  say  that 
I  should  be  glad  of  the  favour  of  a  short  interview? 
This  is  a  piece  of  luck,"  he  added  to  Sir  Henry,  as  the 
constable  took  the  card  and  disappeared  into  the  building. 
"We  shall  now  be  able  to  find  out  all  we  want  to  know." 

The  police  constable  came  hastening  back,  and  with  a 
very  respectful  air  informed  them  that  Mr.  Cromering 
would  be  only  too  happy  to  see  Mr.  Colwyn.  He  led 
them  forthwith  into  the  building,  down  a  passage, 
knocked  at  a  door,  and  without  waiting  for  a  response, 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  37 

ushered  them  into  a  large  room  and  quietly  withdrew. 

There  were  two  officials  in  the  room.  One,  in  uniform, 
a  heavily  built  stout  man  with  sandy  hair  and  a  red 
freckled  face,  sat  at  a  large  roll-top  desk  writing  at  the 
dictation  of  the  other,  who  wore  civilian  clothes.  The 
second  official  was  small  and  elderly,  of  dry  and  meagre 
appearance,  with  a  thin  pale  face,  and  sunken  blue  eyes 
beneath  gold-rimmed  spectacles.  This  gentleman  left  off 
dictating  as  Colwyn  and  Sir  Henry  Durwood  entered,  and 
advanced  to  greet  the  detective  with  a  look  which  might 
have  been  mistaken  for  gratitude  in  a  less  important 
personage. 

Mr.  Cromering's  gratitude  to  Colwyn  was  not  due  to 
any  assistance  he  had  received  from  the  detective  in  the 
elucidation  of  baffling  crime  mysteries.  It  arose  from  an 
entirely  different  cause.  Wolfe  is  supposed  to  have  said 
that  he  would  sooner  have  been  remembered  as  the  author 
of  Gray's  "Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard"  than  as 
the  conqueror  of  Quebec.  Mr.  Cromering  would  sooner 
have  been  the  editor  of  the  English  Review  than  the 
chief  constable  of  Norfolk.  His  tastes  were  bookish; 
Nature  had  intended  him  for  the  librarian  of  a  circulat- 
ing library :  the  safe  pilot  of  middle  class  ladies  through 
the  ocean  of  new  fiction  which  overwhelms  the  British 
Isles  twice  a  year.  His  particular  hobby  was  palaeontol- 
ogy. He  was  the  author  of  The  Jurassic  Deposits  of 
Norfolk,  with  Some  Remarks  on  the  Kimeridge  Clay — 
an  exhaustive  study  of  the  geological  formation  of  the 
county  and  the  remains  of  prehistoric  reptiles,  fishes, 
mollusca  and  Crustacea  which  had  been  discovered 
therein.  This  work,  which  had  taken  six  years  to  prepare, 
had  almost  been  lost  to  the  world  through  the  careless- 
ness of  the  Postal  Department,  which  had  allowed  the 


38  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

manuscript  to  go  astray  while  in  transit  from  Norfolk 
to  the  London  publishers. 

The  distracted  author  had  stirred  up  the  postal  authori- 
ties at  London  and  Norwich,  and  had  ultimately  received 
a  courteous  communication  from  the  Postmaster  Gen- 
eral to  the  effect  that  all  efforts  to  trace  the  missing 
packet  had  failed.  A  friend  of  Mr.  Cromering's  sug- 
gested that  he  should  invoke  the  aid  of  the  famous  de- 
tective Colwyn,  who  had  a  name  for  solving  mysteries 
which  baffled  the  police.  Mr.  Cromering  took  the  advice 
and  wrote  to  Colwyn,  offering  to  mention  his  name  in 
a  preface  to  The  Jurassic  Deposits  if  he  succeeded  in  re- 
covering the  missing  manuscript.  Colwyn,  by  dint  of 
bringing  to  bear  a  little  more  intelligence  and  energy 
than  the  postal  officials  had  displayed,  ran  the  manu- 
script to  earth  in  three  days,  and  forwarded  it  to  the 
owner  with  a  courteous  note  declining  the  honour  of 
the  offered  preface  as  too  great  a  reward  for  such  a 
small  service. 

"Very  happy  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Colwyn,"  said  the  chief 
constable,  as  he  came  forward  with  extended  hand. 
"I've  long  wanted  to  thank  you  personally  for  your  kind- 
ness— your  great  kindness  to  me  last  year.  Although  T 
feel  I  can  never  repay  it,  I'm  glad  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  expressing  it." 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  over-estimating  a  very  small  ser- 
vice," said  Colwyn,  with  a  smile. 

"Very  small?"  The  chief  constable's  emphasis  of  the 
words  suggested  that  his  pride  as  an  author  had  been 
hurt.  "If  you  had  not  recovered  the  manuscript,  a  work 
of  considerable  interest  to  students  of  British  palaeontol- 
ogy would  have  been  lost.  I  must  show  you  a  letter  I 
have  just  received  from  Sir  Thomas  Potter,  of  the  Brit- 
ish Museum,  agreeing  with  my  conclusions  about  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  39 

fossil  remains  of  Ichthyosaurus,  Pleiosaurus,  and  Mosa- 
saurus,  discovered  last  year  at  Roslyn  Hole.  It  is  very 
gratifying  to  me;  very  gratifying.  But  what  can  I  do 
for  you,  Mr.  Colwyn  ?" 

"First  let  me  introduce  to  you  Sir  Henry  Durwood," 
said  Colwyn. 

"Durwood?  Did  you  say  Durwood?"  said  the  little 
man,  eagerly  advancing  upon  the  specialist  with  out- 
stretched hand.  "I'm  delighted  to  meet  one  of  our  top- 
most men  of  science.  Your  illuminating  work  on  Ele- 
phas  Meridionalis  is  a  classic." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  confusing  Sir  Henry  with  a  differ- 
ent Durwood,"  said  the  detective,  coming  to  the  res- 
cue. "Sir  Henry  Durwood  is  the  distinguished  special- 
ist of  Harley  Street,  and  not  the  palaeontologist  of 
that  name.  We  have  called  to  make  some  inquiries 
about  the  murder  which  was  committed  somewhere  near 
here  last  night." 

"The  ruling  passion,  Mr.  Colwyn,  the  ruling  passion! 
Personally  I  should  be  only  too  glad  of  your  assistance 
in  the  case  in  question,  but  I'm  afraid  there's  no  deep 
mystery  to  unravel — it's  not  worth  your  while.  It  would 
be  like  cracking  a  nut  with  a  Nasymth  hammer  for  you 
to  devote  your  brains  to  this  case.  All  the  indications 
point  strongly  to  one  man." 

"A  young  man  who  was  staying  at  the  Grand  till  yes- 
terday?" inquired  the  detective. 

The  chief  constable  nodded. 

"We're  looking  for  a  young  man  who's  been  staying 
at  tlie  Grand  for  some  weeks  past  under  the  name  of 
Ronald.  He's  a  stranger  to  the  district,  and  nobody 
seems  to  know  anything  about  him.  Perhaps  you  gentle- 
men can  tell  me  something  about  him." 

"Very  little,  I'm  afraid,"  replied  Colwyn.    "I've  seen 


40  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

him  at  meal  times,  and  nodded  to  him,  but  never  spoken 
to  him  till  yesterday,  when  he  had  a  fainting  fit  at  break- 
fast. Sir  Henry  Durwood  and  I  helped  him  to  his 
bedroom,  and  exchanged  a  few  remarks  with  him  on  his 
recovery. 

"Yes,  I've  been  told  of  that  illness,"  said  Mr.  Cromer- 
ing,  meditating.  "Did  he  do  or  say  anything  while  you 
were  with  him  that  would  throw  any  light  on  the  subse- 
quent tragic  events  of  the  night,  for  which  he  is  now 
under  suspicion?" 

Colwyn  related  what  had  happened  at  breakfast  and 
afterwards.  Mr.  Cromering  listened  attentively,  and 
turning  to  Sir  Henry  Durwood  asked  him  if  he  had  seen 
Ronald  before  the  previous  day. 

"I  saw  him  yesterday  for  the  first  time  at  the  break- 
fast table,"  replied  Sir  Henry  Durwood.  "I  arrived 
only  the  previous  night.  He  was  taken  ill  at  breakfast. 
Mr.  Colwyn  and  I  assisted  him  to  his  room  and  left  him 
there.  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  him." 

"What  was  the  nature  of  his  illness?"  inquired  the 
chief  constable. 

"It  had  some  of  the  symptoms  of  a  seizure,"  replied 
Sir  Henry  guardedly.  "I  begged  him,  when  he  re- 
covered, not  to  leave  his  room.  I  even  offered  to  com- 
municate with  his  friends,  by  telephone,  if  he  would  give 
me  their  address,  but  he  refused." 

"It  is  a  pity  he  did  not  take  your  advice,"  responded 
the  chief  constable.  "He  appears  to  have  left  the  hotel 
shortly  after  his  illness,  and  walked  along  the  coast 
to  a  little  hamlet  called  Flegne,  about  ten  miles  from 
here.  He  reached  there  in  the  evening,  and  put  up  at 
the  village  inn,  the  Golden  Anchor,  for  the  night.  He 
left  early  in  the  morning,  before  anybody  was  up. 
Shortly  afterwards  the  body  of  Mr.  Roger  Glenthorpe, 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  41 

an  elderly  archaeologist,  who  had  been  staying  at  the  inn 
for  some  time  past  making  researches  into  the  fossil 
remains  common  to  that  part  of  Norfolk,  was  found 
in  a  pit  near  the  house.  The  tracks  of  boot-prints  from 
the  inn  to  the  mouth  of  the  pit,  and  back  again,  indicate 
that  Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  murdered  in  his  bedroom  at 
the  inn,  and  his  body  afterwards  carried  by  the  mur- 
derer to  the  pit  in  which  it  was  found." 

"In  order  to  conceal  the  crime?"  said  Colwyn. 

"Precisely." 

"Who  found  the  body?" 

"Some  men  employed  by  Mr.  Glenthorpe  to  excavate 
for  fossil  remains.  Their  suspicions  were  aroused  by  the 
footsteps  and  some  blood  stains  at  the  mouth  of  the  pit. 
One  of  them  was  lowered  by  a  rope,  and  brought  the  body 
up  from  the  bottom.  The  pit  forms  a  portion  of  a  num- 
ber of  so-called  hut  circles,  or  prehistoric  shelters  of 
the  early  Briton,  which  are  not  uncommon  in  this  part 
of  Norfolk." 

"And  you  have  strong  grounds  for  believing  that  this 
young  man  Ronald,  who  was  staying  at  the  Grand  till 
yesterday,  is  the  murderer?" 

"The  very  strongest.  He  slept  in  the  room  next  to 
the  murdered  man's,  and  disappeared  hurriedly  in  the 
early  morning  from  the  inn  some  time  before  the  body 
was  discovered.  It  is  his  boot-tracks  which  led  to  and 
from  the  pit  where  the  body  was  found.  A  consider- 
able sum  of  money  has  been  stolen  from  the  deceased, 
and  we  have  ascertained  that  Ronald  was  in  desperate 
straits  for  money.  Another  point  against  Ronald  is 
that  Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  stabbed,  and  a  knife  which  was 
used  by  Ronald  at  the  dinner  table  that  night  is  missing. 
It  is  believed  that  the  murder  was  committed  with  this 
knife.  But  if  you  feel  interested  in  the  case,  Mr.  Col- 


42  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

wyn,  you  had  better  hear  the  report  of  Police  Con- 
stable Queensmead." 

The  chief  constable  touched  a  bell,  and  directed  the 
policeman  who  answered  it  to  bring  in  Constable  Queens- 
mead. 

The  policeman  who  appeared  in  answer  to  this  sum- 
mons was  a  thickset  sturdy  Norfolk  man,  with  an  in- 
telligent face  and  shrewd  dark  eyes.  On  the  chief  con- 
stable informing  him  that  he  was  to  give  the  gentlemen 
the  details  of  the  Golden  Anchor  murder,  he  produced 
a  notebook  from  his  tunic,  and  commenced  the  story 
with  official  precision. 

Ronald  had  arrived  at  the  inn  before  dark  on  the 
previous  evening,  and  had  asked  for  a  bed  for  the  night. 
A  little  later  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  the  murdered  man,  who 
had  been  staying  at  the  inn  for  some  time  past,  had 
come  in  for  his  dinner,  and  was  so  pleased  to  meet  a 
gentleman  in  that  rough  and  lonely  place  that  he  had 
asked  Ronald  to  dine  with  him.  The  dinner  was  served 
in  an  upstairs  sitting-room,  and  during  the  course  of  the 
meal  Mr.  Glenthorpe  talked  freely  of  his  scientific  re- 
searches in  the  district,  and  informed  his  guest  -that  he 
had  that  day  been  to  Heathfield  to  draw  £300  to  pur- 
chase a  piece  of  land  containing  some  valuable  fossil 
remains  which  he  intended  to  excavate.  The  two  gentle- 
men sat  talking  after  dinner  till  between  ten  and  eleven, 
and  then  retired  to  rest  in  adjoining  rooms,  in  a  wing 
of  the  inn  occupied  by  nobody  else.  In  the  morning 
Ronald  departed  before  anybody,  except  the  servant, 
was  up,  refusing  to  wait  for  his  boots  to  be  cleaned. 
The  servant,  who  had  had  the  boots  in  her  hands,  had 
noticed  that  one  of  the  boots  had  a  circular  rubber  heel 
on  it,  but  not  the  other.  Ronald  gave  her  a  pound  to 
pay  for  his  bed,  and  the  note  was  one  of  the  first  Treas- 


.THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  43 

ury  issue,  as  were  the  notes  which  Mr.  Glenthorpe  had 
drawn  from  the  bank  at  Heathfield  the  day  before.  The 
body  of  the  murdered  man  was  discovered  in  the  pit 
about  an  hour  after  Ronald's  departure,  and  Con- 
stable Queensmead,  after  hearing  the  servant's  story 
and  examining  the  footprints,  telephoned  a  description 
of  Ronald  to  the  police  stations  along  the  coast,  then 
mounted  his  bicycle  and  caught  the  train  at  Leyland  in 
order  to  report  the  matter  to  the  district  headquarters  at 
Durrington. 

"I  suppose  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  young  man  who 
stayed  at  the  inn  is  identical  with  Ronald,"  said  the  de- 
tective, when  the  constable  had  finished  his  story.  "Do 
the  descriptions  tally  in  every  respect?" 

"Read  the  particulars  you  have  prepared  for  the  hand- 
bills, Queensmead,"  said  the  chief  constable. 

The  constable  produced  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and 
read:  "Description  of  wanted  man:  About  28  years  of 
age,  five  feet  ten  or  eleven  inches  high,  fair  complexion 
rather  sunburnt,  blue  eyes,  straight  nose,  fair  hair,  tooth- 
brush moustache,  clean-cut  features,  well-shaped  hands 
and  feet,  white,  even  teeth.  Was  attired  in  grey  Nor- 
folk or  sporting  lounge  jacket,  knickerbockers  and  stock- 
ings to  match,  with  soft  grey  hat  of  same  material. 
Wore  a  gold  signet-ring  on  little  finger  of  left  hand. 
Distinguishing  marks,  a  small  star-shaped  scar  on  left 
cheek,  slightly  dragged  left  foot  in  walking.  Manner 
superior,  evidently  a  gentleman.'  " 

"That  is  conclusive  enough,"  said  Colwyn.  "It  tallies 
in  every  respect.  The  scar  is  an  unmistakable  mark. 
I  noticed  it  the  first  time  I  saw  Ronald." 

"I  noticed  it  also,"  said  Sir  Henry  Durwood. 

"It  seems  a  clear  case  to  me,"  said  the  chief  constable. 
"I  have  signed  a  warrant  for  Ronald's  arrest,  and  Super- 


44  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

intendent  Galloway  has  notified  all  the  local  stations 
along  the  coast  to  have  the  district  searched.  We  think 
it  very  possible  that  Ronald  is  in  hiding  somewhere  in 
the  marshes.  We  have  also  notified  the  district  railway 
stations  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  anybody  answering  his 
description,  in  case  he  tries  to  escape  by  rail." 

"It  seems  a  strange  case,"  remarked  the  detective 
thoughtfully.  "Why  should  a  young  man  of  Ronald's 
type  leave  his  hotel  and  go  across  to  this  remote  inn, 
and  commit  this  brutal  murder  ?" 

"He  was  very  short  of  money.  We  have  ascertained 
that  he  had  been  requested  to  leave  the  hotel  here  be- 
cause he  could  not  pay  his  bill.  He  has  paid  nothing 
since  he  has  been  here,  and  owed  more  than  £30.  The 
proprietor  told  him  yesterday  morning,  as  he  was  going 
in  to  breakfast,  that  he  must  leave  the  hotel  at  once  if 
he  could  not  pay  his  bill.  He  went  away  shortly  after 
the  scene  in  the  breakfast  room  which  was  witnessed  by 
you  gentlemen,  and  left  his  luggage  behind  him.  I  sus- 
pect the  proprietor  would  not  allow  him  to  take  his  lug- 
gage until  he  had  discharged  his  bill." 

"It  strikes  me  as  a  remarkable  case,  nevertheless," 
said  Colwyn.  "I  should  like  to  look  into  it  a  little  fur- 
ther, with  your  permission." 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  chief  constable  courteously. 
"Superintendent  Galloway  will  be  in  charge  of  the  case. 
I  suggested  that  he  should  ask  for  a  man  to  be  sent 
down  from  Scotland  Yard,  but  he  does  not  think  it 
necessary.  I  feel  sure  that  he  will  be  delighted  to  have 
the  assistance  of  such  a  celebrated  detective  as  yourself. 
When  are  you  starting  for  Flegne,  Galloway?" 

"In  half  an  hour,"  replied  the  superintendent.  "I 
shall  have  to  walk  from  Leyland — five  miles  or  more. 
The  train  does  not  go  beyond  there." 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  45 

"Then  I  will  drive  you  over  in  my  car,"  said  the  de- 
tective. 

"In  that  case  perhaps  you'll  permit  me  to  accompany 
you,"  said  the  chief  constable.  "I  should  very  much  like 
to  observe  your  methods." 

"And  I  too,"  said  Sir  Henry  Durwood 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  road  to  Flegne  skirted  the  settled  and  prosperous 
cliff  uplands,  thence  ran  through  the  sea  marshes  which 
stretched  along  that  part  of  the  Norfolk  coast  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach  until  they  were  merged  and  lost 
to  view  in  the  cold  northern  mists. 

The  road,  after  leaving  the  uplands,  descended  in  a 
sinuous  curve  towards  the  sea,  but  the  party  in  the 
motor  car  were  stopped  on  their  way  down  by  a  young 
mounted  officer,  who,  on  learning  of  their  destination, 
told  them  they  would  have  to  make  an  inland  detour  for 
some  miles,  as  the  military  authorities  had  closed  that 
part  of  the  coast  to  ordinary  traffic 

As  they  turned  away  from  the  coast,  the  chief  con- 
stable informed  Colwyn  that  the  prohibited  area  was 
full  of  troops  guarding  a  little  bay  called  Leyland  Hoop, 
where  the  water  was  so  deep  that  hostile  transports 
might  anchor  close  inshore,  and  where,  according  to 
ancient  local  tradition, 

"He  who  would   Old   England   win, 
Must  at  the  Leyland  Hoop  begin." 

After  traversing  a  mile  or  so  of  open  country,  and 
passing  through  one  or  two  scattered  villages,  they 
turned  back  to  the  coast  again  on  the  other  side  of  a  high 
green  headland  which  marked  the  end  of  the  prohibited 
area,  and,  crossing  the  bridge  of  a  shallow  muddy  river, 
found  themselves  in  the  area  of  the  marshes. 

It  was  a  region  of  swamps  and  stagnant  dykes,  of 
tussockland  and  wet  flats,  with  scarcely  a  stir  of  life 

46 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  47 

in  any  part  of  it,  and  nothing  to  take  the  eye  except  a 
stone  cottage  here  and  there. 

The  marshes  stretched  from  the  road  to  the  sea,  nearly 
a  mile  away.  Man  had  almost  given  up  the  task  of  at- 
tempting to  wrest  a  living  from  this  inhospitable  region. 
The  boat  channels  which  threaded  the  ooze  were  choked 
with  weed  and  covered  with  green  slime  from  long  dis- 
use, the  little  stone  quays  were  thick  with  moss,  the 
rotting  planks  of  a  broken  fishing  boat  were  foul  with 
the  encrustations  of  long  years,  the  stone  cottages  by 
the  roadside  seemed  deserted.  Here  and  there  the 
marshes  had  encroached  upon  the  far  side  of  the  road, 
creeping  half  a  mile  or  more  farther  inland,  destroying 
the  wholesome  earth  like  rust  corroding  steel,  and 
stretching  slimy  tentacles  towards  the  farmlands  on  the 
rise. 

Humanity  had  retreated  from  the  inroads  of  the  sea 
only  after  a  stubborn  fight.  The  ruins  of  an  Augustinian 
priory,  a  crumbling  fragment  of  a  Norman  tower,  the 
mouldering  remnant  of  a  castellated  hall,  showed  how 
prolonged  had  been  the  struggle  with  the  elements  of 
Nature  before  Man  had  acknowledged  his  defeat  and  re- 
treated, leaving  hostages  behind  him.  And — significant 
indication  of  the  bitterness  of  the  fight — it  was  to  be 
noted  that,  while  the  builders  of  a  bygone  generation  had 
built  to  face  the  sea,  the  handful  of  their  successors  who 
still  kept  up  the  losing  fight  had  built  their  beachstone 
cottages  with  sturdy  stone  backs  to  the  road,  for  the 
greater  protection  of  the  inmates  from  the  fierce  winter 
gales  which  swept  across  the  marshes  from  the  North 
Sea. 

The  car  had  travelled  some  miles  through  this  desolate 
region  when  the  chief  constable  directed  Colwyn's  at- 
tention to  a  spire  rising  from  the  flats  a  mile  or  so  away, 


48  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

and  said  it  was  the  church  of  Flegne-next-sea.  Colwyn 
increased  his  speed  a  little,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  car 
had  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  little  hamlet,  which  con- 
sisted of  a  straggling  row  of  beachstone  cottages,  a  few 
gaunt  farm-houses  on  the  rise,  and  a  cruciform  church 
standing  back  from  the  village  on  a  little  hill,  with  high 
turret  or  beacon  lights  which  had  warned  the  North 
Sea  mariners  of  a  former  generation  of  the  dangers 
of  that  treacherous  coast. 

In  times  past  Flegne-next-sea — pronounced  "Fly"  by 
the  natives,  "Fleen"  by  etymologists,  and  "Flegney"  by 
the  rare  intrusive  Cockney — had  doubtless  been  a  pros- 
perous little  port,  but  the  encroaching  sea  had  long  since 
killed  its  trade,  scattered  its  inhabitants,  and  reduced  it 
to  a  spectre  of  human  habitation  compelled  to  keep  the 
scene  of  its  former  activities  after  life  had  departed. 
Half  the  stone  cottages  were  untenanted,  with  broken 
windows,  flapping  doors,  and  gardens  overgrown  with 
rank  marsh  weeds.  The  road  through  the  village  had 
fallen  into  disrepair,  and  oozed  beneath  the  weight  of 
the  car,  a  few  boards  thrown  higgledy-piggledy  across 
in  places  representing  the  local  effort  to  preserve  the 
roadway  from  the  invading  marshes.  The  little  canal 
quay — a  wooden  one — was  a  tangle  of  rotting  boards  and 
loose  piles,  and  the  stagnant  green  water  of  the  shallow 
canal  was  abandoned  to  a  few  grey  geese,  which  honked 
angrily  at  the  passing  car.  There  was  no  sign  of  life 
in  the  village  street,  and  no  sound  except  the  autumn 
wind  moaning  across  the  marshes  and  the  boom  of  the 
distant  sea  against  the  breakwater. 

"There's  the  inn — straight  in  front,"  said  Police-Con- 
stable Queensmead,  pointing  to  it. 

The  Golden  Anchor  inn  must  have  been  built  in  the 
days  of  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel,  for  nothing  remained  of 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  49 

the  maritime  prosperity  which  had  originally  bestowed 
the  name  upon  the  building.  It  was  of  rough  stone, 
coloured  a  dirty  white,  with  two  queer  circular  windows 
high  up  in  the  wall  on  one  side,  the  other  side  rest- 
ing on  a  little,  round-shouldered  hill.  It  was  built  facing 
away  from  the  sea  like  the  beachstone  cottages,  from 
which  it  was  separated  by  a  patch  of  common.  From 
the  rear  of  the  inn  the  marshes  stretched  in  unbroken 
monotony  to  the  line  of  leaping  white  sea  dashing  sul- 
lenly against  the  breakwater  wall,  and  ran  for  miles 
north  and  south  in  a  desolate  uniformity,  still  and  grey 
as  the  sky  above,  devoid  of  life  except  for  a  few  migrant 
birds  feeding  in  the  salt  creeks  or  winging  their  way 
seaward  in  strong,  silent  flight.  The  rays  of  the  after- 
noon sun,  momentarily  piercing  the  thick  clouds,  fell  on 
the  white  wall  and  round  glazed  windows  of  the  inn, 
giving  it  a  sinister  resemblance  to  a  dead  face. 

Colwyn  brought  his  car  to  a  standstill  on  the  edge  of 
the  saturated  strip  of  common. 

"We  shall  have  to  walk  across,"  he  said. 

"Nobody  will  run  off  with  the  car,"  said  Galloway, 
scrambling  down  from  his  seat. 

"The  murderer  brought  the  body  from  the  back  of  the 
house  across  this  green,  and  carried  it  up  that  rise  in 
front  of  the  inn,"  said  Queensmead.  "You  cannot  see 
the  pit  from  here,  but  it  is  close  to  that  little  wood  on 
the  summit.  The  footprints  do  not  show  in  the  grass, 
but  they  are  very  plain  in  the  clay  a  little  farther  on, 
and  lead  straight  to  the  pit." 

"How  deep  is  the  pit?"  asked  Colwyn. 

"About  thirty  feet  It  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  bring 
up  the  body." 

"We  will  examine  the  pit  and  the  footprints  later," 
said  Mr.  Cromering.  "Let  us  go  inside  first." 


50  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

Picking  their  way  across  the  common  to  the  front  of 
the  inn,  they  encountered  a  little  group  of  men  con- 
versing underneath  the  rusty  old  anchor  signboard  which 
dangled  from  a  stout  stanchion  above  the  front  door  of 
the  inn.  Some  men,  wearing  seaboots  and  jerseys, 
others  in  labouring  garb,  splashed  with  clay  and  mud, 
were  standing  about.  They  ceased  their  conversation  as 
the  party  from  the  motor-car  appeared  around  the 
corner,  and,  moving  a  respectful  distance  away,  watched 
them  covertly. 

The  front  door  of  the  inn  was  closed.  Superintendent 
Galloway  tapped  at  it  sharply,  and  after  the  lapse  of  a 
moment  or  two  the  door  was  opened,  and  a  man  appeared 
on  the  threshold.  Seeing  the  police  uniforms  he  stepped 
outside  as  if  to  make  more  room  for  the  party  to  enter 
the  narrow  passage  from  which  he  had  emerged.  Col- 
wyn  noticed  that  he  was  so  tall  that  he  had  to  stoop  in 
the  old-fashioned  doorway  as  he  came  out. 

Seen  at  close  quarters,  this  man  was  a  strange  speci- 
men of  humanity.  He  was  well  over  six  feet  in  height, 
and  so  cadaverous,  thin  and  gaunt  that  he  might  well 
have  been  mistaken  for  the  presiding  genius  of  the 
marshes  who  had  stricken  that  part  of  the  Norfolk  coast 
with  aridity  and  barrenness.  But  there  was  no  lack  of 
strength  in  his  frame  as  he  advanced  briskly  towards  his 
visitors.  His  face  was  not  the  least  remarkable  part 
of  him.  It  was  ridiculously  small  and  narrow  for  so  big 
a  frame,  with  a  great  curved  beak  of  a  nose,  and  small 
bright  eyes  set  close  together.  Those  eyes  were  at  the 
present  moment  glancing  with  birdlike  swiftness  from 
one  to  the  other  of  his  visitors. 

"You  are  the  innkeeper — the  landlord  of  this  place?" 
asked  Mr.  Cromering. 

"At  your  service,  sir.     Won't  you  go  inside?"     His 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  51 

voice  was  the  best  part  of  him;  soft  and  gentle,  with  a 
cultivated  accent  which  suggested  that  the  speaker  had 
known  a  different  environment  at  some  time  or  other. 

"Show  us  into  a  private  room,"  said  Mr.  Cromering. 

The  innkeeper  escorted  the  party  along  the  passage, 
and  took  them  into  a  room  with  a  low  ceiling  and  sanded 
floor,  smelling  of  tobacco,  explaining,  as  he  placed  chairs, 
that  it  was  the  bar  parlour,  but  they  would  be  quiet  and 
free  from  interruption  in  it,  because  he  had  closed  the 
inn  that  day  in  anticipation  of  the  police  visit. 

"Quite  right — very  proper,"  said  the  chief  constable. 

"Will  you  and  the  other  gentlemen  take  any  refresh- 
ment, after  your  journey?"  suggested  the  innkeeper. 
"I'm  afraid  the  resources  of  the  inn  are  small,  but  there 
is  some  excellent  old  brandy." 

He  stretched  out  an  arm  towards  the  bell  rope  behind 
him.  Colwyn  noticed  that  his  hand  was  long  and  thin 
and  yellow — a  skeleton  claw  covered  with  parchment. 

"Never  mind  the  brandy  just  now,"  said  Mr.  Cromer- 
ing, taking  on  himself  to  refuse  on  behalf  of  his  com- 
panions the  proffered  refreshment.  "We  have  much  to 
do  and  it  will  be  time  enough  for  refreshments  after- 
wards. We  will  view  the  body  first,  and  make  inquiries 
after.  Where  is  the  body,  Benson?" 

"Upstairs,  sir." 

"Take  us  to  the  room." 

The  innkeeper  led  the  way  upstairs  along  a  dark  and 
narrow  passage.  When  he  reached  a  door  near  the  end, 
he  opened  it  and  stood  aside  for  them  to  enter. 

"This  is  the  room,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  It  was 
Colwyn's  keen  eye  that  noted  the  key  in  the  door. 
"What  is  that  key  doing  in  the  door,  on  the  outside  ?"  he 
asked.  "How  long  has  it  been  there?" 

"The  maid  found  it  there  this  morning,  sir,  when  she 


52  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

went  up  with  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  hot  water.  That  made 
her  suspect  something  must  be  wrong,  because  Mr. 
Glenthorpe  was  in  the  habit  of  locking  his  door  of  a 
night  and  placing  the  key  under  his  pillow.  So,  after 
knocking  and  getting  no  answer,  she  opened  the  door, 
and  found  the  room  empty." 

"The  door  was  not  locked,  though  the  key  was  in  the 
door?" 

"No,  sir,  and  everything  in  the  room  was  just  as  usual. 
Nothing  had  been  disturbed." 

"And  was  that  bedroom  window  open  when  you  found 
the  room  empty  ?"  asked  Superintendent  Galloway,  point- 
ing to^t  through  the  open  doorway. 

" Tes7  sir — just  as  you  see  it  now.  I  gave  orders  that 
nothing  was  to  be  touched." 

"Ronald  slept  in  this  room,"  said  Queensmead,  indicat- 
ing the  door  of  the  adjoining  bedroom. 

"We  will  look  at  that  later,"  said  Galloway. 

The  interior  of  the  room  they  entered  was  surprisingly 
light  and  cheerful  and  spacious,  having  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  those  low  gloomy  vaults,  crammed  with  clumsy 
furniture  and  moth-eaten  stuffed  animals,  which  gener- 
ally pass  muster  as  bedrooms  in  English  country  inns. 
Instead  of  the  small  circular  windows  of  the  south  side, 
there  was  a  large  modern  two-paned  window  in  a  line 
with  the  door,  opening  on  to  the  other  side  of  the  house. 
The  bottom  pane  was  up,  and  the  window  opened  as 
wide  as  possible.  A  very  modern  touch,  unusual  in  a 
remote  country  inn,  was  a  rose  coloured  gas  globe  sus- 
pended from  the  ceiling,  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  The 
furniture  belonged  to  a  past  period,  but  it  was  handsome 
and  well-kept — a  Spanish  mahogany  wardrobe,  chest  of 
drawers  and  washstand  with  chairs  to  match.  Modern 
articles,  such  as  a  small  writing-desk  near  the  window, 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  53 

some  library  books,  a  fountain  pen,  a  reading-lamp  by 
the  bedside,  and  an  attache  case,  suggested  the  personal 
possessions  and  modern  tastes  of  the  last  occupant.  A 
comfortable  carpet  covered  the  floor,  and  some  faded 
oil-paintings  adorned  the  walls. 

The  bed — a  large  wooden  one,  but  not  a  fourposter — • 
stood  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  room  from  the  en- 
trance, with  the  head  against  the  wall  nearest  the  outside 
passage,  and  the  foot  partly  in  line  with  the  open  window, 
which  was  about  eight  feet  away  from  it.  The  door 
when  pushed  back  swung  just  clear  of  a  small  bedroom 
table  beside  the  bed,  on  which  the  reading  lamp  stood, 
with  a  book  beside  it.  The  other  side  of  the  bed  was 
close  to  the  wall  which  divided  the  room  from  the  next 
bedroom,  so  that  there  was  a  large  clear  space  on  the 
outside,  between  the  bed  and  the  door.  The  gas  fitting, 
which  was  suspended  from  the  ceiling  in  this  open  space, 
hung  rather  low,  the  bottom  of  the  globe  being  not  more 
than  six  feet  from  the  floor.  The  globe  was  cracked, 
and  the  incandescent  burner  was  broken. 

The  murdered  man  had  been  laid  in  the  middle  of  the 
bed,  and  covered  with  a  sheet.  Superintendent  Gallo- 
way quietly  drew  the  sheet  away,  revealing  the  massive 
white  head  and  clear-cut  death  mask  of  a  man  of  sixty 
or  sixty-five;  a  fine  powerful  face,  benign  in  expression, 
with  a  chin  and  mouth  of  marked  character  and  individ- 
uality. But  the  distorted  contour  of  the  half-open 
mouth,  and  the  almost  piteous  expression  of  the  unclosed 
sightless  eyes,  seemed  to  beseech  the  assistance  of  those 
who  now  bent  over  him,  revealing  only  too  clearly  that 
death  had  come  suddenly  and  unexpectedly. 

"He  was  a  great  archaeologist — one  of  the  greatest  in 
England,"  said  Mr.  Cromering  gently,  with  something  of 
a  tremor  in  his  voice,  as  he  gazed  down  at  the  dead 


54  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

man's  face.     "To  think  that  such  a  man  should  have  been 
struck  down  by  an  assassin's  blow.     What  a  loss !" 

"Let  us  see  how  he  was  murdered,"  said  the  more 
practical  Galloway,  who  was  standing  beside  his  superior 
officer.  He  drew  off  the  covering  sheet  as  he  spoke,  and 
dropped  it  lightly  on  the  floor. 

The  body  thus  revealed  was  that  of  a  slightly  built  man 
of  medium  height.  It  was  clad  in  a  flannel  sleeping  suit, 
spattered  with  mud  and  clay,  and  oozing  with  water. 
The  arms  were  inclining  outwards  from  the  body,  and  the 
legs  were  doubled  up.  There  were  a  few  spots  of  blood 
on  the  left  breast,  and  immediately  beneath,  almost  on 
the  left  side,  just  visible  in  the  stripe  of  the  pyjama 
jacket,  was  the  blow  which  had  caused  death — a  small 
orifice  like  a  knife  cut,  just  over  the  heart. 

"It  is  a  very  small  wound  to  have  killed  so  strong  a 
man,"  said  Mr.  Cromering.  "There  is  hardly  any  blood." 

Sir  Henry  examined  the  wound  closely.  "The  blow 
was  struck  with  great  force,  and  penetrated  the  heart. 
The  weapon  used — a  small,  thin,  steel  instrument — and 
internal  bleeding,  account  for  the  small  external  flow." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  thin,  steel  instrument  ?"  asked 
Superintendent  Galloway.  "Would  an  ordinary  table- 
knife  answer  that  description?" 

"Certainly.  In  fact,  the  nature  of  the  wound  strongly 
suggests  that  it  was  made  by  a  round-headed,  flat-bladed 
weapon,  such  as  an  ordinary  table  or  dinner  knife.  The 
thrust  was  made  horizontally, — that  is,  across  the  ribs 
and  between  them,  instead  of  perpendicularly,  which  is 
the  usual  method  of  stabbing.  Apparently  the  murderer 
realised  that  his  knife  was  too  broad  for  the  purpose, 
and  turned  it  the  other  way,  so  as  to  make  sure  of  pene- 
trating the  ribs  and  reaching  the  heart." 

"Does  not  that  suggest  a  rather  unusual  knowledge  of 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  55 

human  anatomy  on  the  murderer's  part?"  asked  Mr. 
Cromering. 

"I  do  not  think  so.  Anybody  can  tell  how  far  apart 
the  human  ribs  are  by  feeling  them." 

"It  is  easy  to  see,  Sir  Henry,  that  the  wound  was  made 
by  a  thin-bladed  knife,  but  why  do  you  think  it  was 
also  round-headed?"  asked  Superintendent  Galloway. 
"Might  it  not  have  been  a  sharp-pointed  one?" 

"Or  even  a  dagger?"  suggested  Mr.  Cromering. 

"Certainly  not  a  dagger.  The  ordinary  dagger  would 
have  made  a  wider  perforation  with  a  corresponding  in- 
crease in  the  bloodflow.  My  theory  of  a  round-headed 
knife  is  based  on  the  circumstance  of  a  portion  of  the 
deceased's  pyjama  jacket  having  been  carried  into  the 
wound.  A  sharp-pointed  knife  would  have  made  a  clean 
cut  through  the  jacket." 

"I  see,"  said  Superintendent  Galloway,  with  a  sharp 
nod. 

"Therefore,  we  may  assume,  in  the  case  before  us," — 
Sir  Henry  Durwood  waved  a  fat  white  hand  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  corpse  as  though  he  were  delivering  an  an- 
atomical lecture  before  a  class  of  medical  students — "that 
the  victim  was  killed  with  a  flat,  round  knife  with  a 
round  edge,  held  sideways.  Furthermore,  the  position  of 
the  wound  reveals  that  the  blow  was  too  much  on  the 
left  side  to  pierce  the  centre  of  the  heart  directly,  but 
was  a  slanting  blow,  delivered  with  such  force  that  it 
has  probably  pierced  the  heart  on  the  right  side,  causing 
instant  death." 

"The  weapon,  then,  entered  the  body  in  a  lateral  direc- 
tion, that  is,  from  left  to  right  ?"  asked  Colwyn,  who  had 
been  closely  following  the  specialist's  remarks. 

"That  is  what  I  meant  to  convey,"  responded  Sir 
Henry,  in  his  most  professional  manner.  "The  blade 


56  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

entered  on  the  left  side,  and  travelled  towards  the  centre 
of  the  body." 

"From  the  nature  of  the  wound  would  you  say  that 
the  knife  entered  almost  parallel  with  the  ribs,  though 
slanting  slightly  downwards,  in  order  to  pierce  the  heart 
on  the  right  side  ?" 

"That  would  be  the  general  direction,  though  it  is  im- 
possible to  ascertain,  without  a  post-mortem  examination, 
the  exact  spot  where  the  heart  was  pierced." 

"But  the  wound  slants  in  such  a  way  as  to  prove  that 
the  blow  was  struck  from  left  to  right?"  persisted 
Colwyn. 

"Undoubtedly,"  responded  Sir  Henry. 


CHAPTER  V 

DURING  the  latter  part  of  the  conversation  Superin- 
tendent Galloway  walked  to  the  open  window,  and  looked 
out.  He  turned  round  swiftly,  with  a  look  of  unusual 
animation  on  his  heavy  features,  and  exclaimed: 

"The  murderer  entered  through  the  window." 

The  others  went  over  to  the  window.  The  inn  on 
that  side  had  been  built  into  a  small  hill  of  beehive 
shape,  which  had  been  partly  levelled  to  make  way  for 
the  foundations.  Seen  from  outside,  the  inn,  with  its 
back  to  the  sea  and  a  corner  of  its  front  entering  the 
hillside,  bore  a  remote  resemblance  to  some  nakedly  ugly 
animal  with  its  nose  burrowed  into  the  earth.  Part  of 
the  bar  was  actual!^  underground,  and  the  windows  of 
the  rooms  immediately  above  looked  out  on  the  hillside. 
The  window  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room,  which  was  above 
the  bar  parlour,  was  not  more  than  four  or  five  feet  away 
from  the  round-shouldered  side  of  the  hill.  From  that 
point  the  hill  fell  away  rapidly,  and  the  first-story  win- 
dows at  the  back,  where  the  house  rose  from  the  flat 
edge  of  the  marsh,  were  about  fifteen  feet  from  the 
ground.  The  space  between  the  inn  wall  and  the  beehive 
curve  of  the  hill,  which  was  very  narrow  under  Mr. 
Glenthorpe's  window,  but  widened  as  the  hill  fell  away, 
was  covered  with  a  russet-coloured  clay,  which  con- 
trasted vividly  with  the  sombre  grey  and  drab  tints  of 
the  marshes. 

"It  was  an  easy  matter  to  get  in  this  window,"  said 
Superintendent  Galloway.  "And  here's  the  proof  that 
the  murderer  came  in  this  way."  He  stooped  and  picked 

57 


58  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

up  something  from  the  floor,  close  to  the  window,  and 
held  it  out  in  the  palm  of  his  hand  for  the  inspection  of 
his  companions.  It  was  a  small  piece  of  red  clay,  like 
the  russet-coloured  clay  outside  the  window. 

"Here  is  another  clue,"  said  Colwyn,  pointing  to  a 
fragment  of  black  material  adhering  to  a  nail  near  the 
bottom  of  the  window. 

"Ronald  ripped  something  he  was  wearing  while  get- 
ting through  the  window,"  said  Galloway,  detaching  the 
fragment,  which  he  and  Colwyn  examined  closely. 

"Have  you  noticed  that?"  said  Colwyn,  pointing  to  a 
pool  of  water  which  had  collected  near  the  open  window, 
between  the  edge  of  the  carpet  and  the  skirting  board. 

"Yes,"  replied  Galloway.  "It  was  raining  heavily  last 
night." 

With  eyes  sharpened  by  his  discoveries,  Galloway 
made  a  careful  search  of  the  carpet,  and  found  several 
more  crumbs  of  red  clay  between  the  window  and  the 
bed.  Near  the  bed  he  detected  some  splashes  of  candle- 
grease,  which  he  detached  from  the  carpet  with  his 
pocket-knife.  He  also  picked  up  the  stump  of  a  burnt 
wooden  match,  and  the  broken  unlighted  head  of  another. 
After  showing  these  things  to  his  companions  he  placed 
them  carefully  in  an  empty  match-box,  which  he  put  in 
his  pocket. 

"Somebody  has  bumped  against  this  gas  globe  pretty 
hard,"  said  Colwyn.  "The  glass  is  broken  and  the  in- 
candescent burner  smashed." 

He  bent  down  to  examine  the  white  fragments  of  the 
burner  which  were  scattered  about  the  carpet,  and  as  he 
did  so  he  noticed  another  broken  wooden  match,  and 
two  more  splashes  of  candle-grease  directly  beneath  the 
gas-jet.  He  removed  the  candle-grease  carefully,  and 
showed  it  to  Galloway. 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  59 

"More  candle-grease!"  the  latter  said.  "Well,  that's 
not  likely  to  prove  anything  except  that  Ronald  was  care- 
less with  his  light.  I  suppose  the  wind  caused  the  can- 
dle to  gutter.  I  would  willingly  exchange  the  candle- 
grease  for  some  finger-prints.  There's  not  a  sign  of 
finger-prints  anywhere.  Ronald  must  have  worn  gloves. 
Now,  let  us  have  a  look  at  Ronald's  room.  I  want  to  see 
if  he  could  get  out  of  his  own  window  on  to  the  hillside. 
His  window  is  higher  from  the  ground  than  this  window. 
The  hill  falls  away  very  sharply." 

The  bedroom  Ronald  had  occupied  was  small  and  nar- 
row, and  its  meagre  furniture  was  in  striking  contrast 
with  the  comfortable  appointments  of  the  room  they  had 
just  left.  It  contained  a  single  bed,  a  chest  of  drawers,  a 
washstand,  and  a  wardrobe.  The  latter,  a  cumbrous 
article  of  furniture,  stood  between  the  bed  and  the  wall, 
against  the  side  nearest  to  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room. 

Galloway  strode  across  to  the  window,  which  was  open, 
and  looked  out.  The  hillside  fell  away  so  rapidly  that 
the  bottom  of  the  window  was  quite  eight  feet  from  the 
ground  outside. 

"Not  much  of  a  drop  for  an  athletic  young  fellow  like 
Ronald,"  said  Galloway  to  Colwyn,  who  had  joined  him. 

"The  window  is  very  much  smaller  than  the  one  in  Mr. 
Glenthorpe's  bedroom,"  said  Colwyn. 

"But  large  enough  for  a  man  to  get  through.  Look 
here!  I  can  get  my  head  and  shoulders  through,  and 
where  the  head  and  shoulders  go  the  rest  of  the  body  will 
follow.  Ronald  got  through  it  last  night  and  into  the 
next  room  by  the  other  window.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  that  was  how  the  murder  was  committed." 

Galloway  left  the  window,  and  examined  the  bedroom 
carefully.  He  turned  down  the  bed-clothes,  and  scruti- 
nised the  sheets  and  pillows. 


60  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"I  thought  he  might  have  left  some  blood-stains  on  the 
linen,  after  carrying  the  body  downstairs,"  he  explained. 
"But  he  hasn't." 

"Sir  Henry  says  the  bleeding  was  largely  internal,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Cromering.  "That  would  account  for  the 
absence  of  any  tell-tale  marks  on  the  bed-clothes." 

"He  was  too  clever  to  wash  his  hands  when  he  came 
back,"  grumbled  Galloway,  turning  to  the  washstand  and 
examining  the  towels.  "He's  a  cool  customer." 

"I  notice  that  the  candle  in  the  candlestick  is  a  wax 
one,"  said  Colwyn. 

"And  burnt  more  than  half-way  down,"  commented 
Galloway,  glancing  at  it. 

"You  attach  no  significance  to  the  fact  that  the  candle 
is  a  wax  one?"  questioned  the  detective. 

"No,  do  you  ?"  replied  Galloway,  with  a  puzzled  glance. 

Colwyn  did  not  reply  to  the  question.  He  was  looking 
attentively  at  the  large  wardrobe  by  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"That's  a  strange  place  to  put  a  wardrobe,"  he  said. 
"It  would  be  difficult  to  get  out  of  bed  without  barking 
one's  shins  against  it." 

"It  was  probably  put  there  to  hide  the  falling  wall- 
paper,— the  place  is  going  to  rack  and  ruin,"  said  Gal- 
loway, pointing  to  the  top  of  the  wardrobe,  where  the 
faded  wall-paper,  mildewed  and  wret  with  damp,  was 
hanging  in  festoons.  "Now,  Queensmead,  lead  the  way 
outside.  I've  seen  all  I  want  to  see  in  this  room." 

"Would  you  like  to  see  the  room  where  Ronald  and 
Mr.  Glenthorpe  dined?"  suggested  the  constable.  "It's 
on  this  floor,  on  the  other  side  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  bed- 
room." 

"We  can  see  that  later.  I  want  to  examine  outside 
before  it  gets  dark." 

They  left  the  room.     The  innkeeper  was  waiting  pa- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  6l 

tiently  in  the  passage,  standing  motionless  at  the  head  of 
the  staircase,  with  his  head  inclining  forward,  like  a 
marsh  heron  fishing  in  a  dyke.  He  hastened  towards 
them. 

"I  noticed  a  reading-lamp  by  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  bedside, 
Mr.  Benson,"  said  Colwyn.  "Did  he  use  that  as  well  as 
the  gas?" 

"He  rarely  used  the  gas,  sir,  though  it  was  put  into 
the  room  at  his  request.  He  found  the  reading-lamp 
suited  his  sight  better." 

"Did  he  use  candles?  I  saw  no  candlestick  in  the 
room." 

"He  never  used  candles,  sir — only  the  reading-lamp." 

"When  was  the  gas-globe  smashed?    Last  night?" 

"It  must  have  been,  sir.  Ann  says  it  was  quite  all 
right  yesterday." 

"I've  got  my  own  idea  how  that  was  done,"  said  Gal- 
loway, who  had  been  an  attentive  listener  to  the  inn- 
keeper's replies  to  Colwyn's  questions.  "Show  the  way 
downstairs  to  the  back  door,  Mr.  Benson." 

The  innkeeper  preceded  them  down  the  stairs  and  along 
the  passage  to  another  one,  which  terminated  in  a  latched 
door,  which  he  opened. 

"How  was  this  door  fastened  last  night?"  asked  Gal- 
loway. 

"By  this  bolt  at  the  top,"  said  the  innkeeper,  pointing 
to  it.  "There  is  no  key — only  this  catch." 

"Is  this  the  only  back  outlet  from  the  inn?"  asked 
Colwyn. 

"Yes,  sir." 

At  Galloway's  suggestion  they  first  went  to  the  side  of 
the  inn,  in  order  to  examine  the  ground  beneath  the  win- 
uows.  The  fence  enclosing  the  yard  had  fallen  into  dis- 
repair, and  had  many  gaps  in  it.  There  were  no  foot- 


62  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

prints  visible  in  the  red  clay  of  the  natural  passage-way 
between  the  inn  wall  and  the  hill,  either  beneath  the  win- 
dow of  Ronald's  room  or  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  window. 

"The  absence  of  footprints  means  nothing,"  said  Gal- 
loway. "Ronald  may  have  climbed  from  one  room  to  the 
other  in  his  stocking  feet,  and  then  put  on  his  boots  to 
remove  the  body.  Even  if  he  wore  his  boots  he  might 
have  left  no  marks,  if  he  walked  lightly." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Colwyn.  "But  what 
do  you  make  of  this?" 

He  pointed  to  an  impression  in  the  red  earth  under- 
neath Mr.  Glenthorpe's  window — a  line  so  faint  as  to  be 
barely  noticeable,  running  outward  from  the  wall  for 
about  eighteen  inches,  with  another  line  about  the  same 
length  running  at  right  angles  from  it.  Superintendent 
Galloway  examined  these  two  lines  closely  and  then  shook 
his  head  as  though  to  intimate  he  could  make  nothing  of 
them. 

"What  do  you  think  they  are?"  said  Mr.  Cromering, 
turning  to  Colwyn. 

"I  think  they  may  have  been  made  by  a  box,"  was  the 
reply. 

"You  are  not  suggesting  that  the  murderer  threw  a 
box  out  of  the  window?"  exclaimed  Superintendent 
Galloway,  staring  at  the  detective.  "Look  how  straight 
the  line  from  the  wall  is!  A  box  would  have  fallen 
crookedly." 

"I  do  not  suggest  anything  of  the  kind.  If  it  was  a 
box,  it  is  more  likely  it  was  placed  outside  the  window." 

"For  what  purpose  ?" 

"To  help  the  murderer  climb  into  the  room." 

"He  didn't  need  it,"  replied  Galloway.  "It's  an  easy 
matter  to  get  through  this  window  from  the  ground.  I 
can  do  it  myself."  He  placed  his  hands  on  the  sill, 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  63 

sprang  on  to  the  window  ledge,  and  dropped  back  again. 
"I  attach  no  importance  to  these  lines.  They  are  so  faint 
that  they  might  have  been  made  months  ago.  There  is 
nothing  to  be  seen  here,  so  we  may  as  well  go  and  look 
at  the  footprints.  Show  us  where  the  marks  of  the  foot- 
steps commence,  Queensmead." 

The  constable  led  the  way  to  the  other  side  of  the  house 
and  across  the  green.  The  grass  terminated  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  inn  in  a  clay  bank  bordering  a  wide  tract 
of  bare  and  sterile  land,  which  extended  almost  to  the 
summit  of  the  rise.  Clearly  defined  in  the  clay  and  the 
black  soft  earth  were  two  sets  of  footprints,  one  going 
towards  the  rise,  and  the  other  returning.  The  outgoing 
footsteps  were  deeply  and  distinctly  outlined  from  heel 
to  toe.  The  right  foot  plainly  showed  the  circular  mark 
of  a  rubber  heel,  which  was  missing  in  the  other,  though 
a  sharp  indentation  showed  the  mark  of  the  spike  to 
which  the  rubber  had  been  fastened. 

"The  footprints  lead  straight  to  the  mouth  of  the  pit 
where  the  body  was  thrown,"  said  Queensmead. 

"What  a  clue!"  exclaimed  Superintendent  Galloway, 
his  eyes  sparkling  with  excitement.  "You  are  quite  cer- 
tain the  inn  servant  can  swear  that  these  marks  were 
made  by  Ronald's  boots,  Queensmead  ?" 

"There's  no  doubt  on  that  point,  sir,"  replied  the  con- 
stable. "She  had  the  boots  in  her  hands  this  morning, 
just  before  Ronald  put  them  on,  and  she  distinctly  noticed 
that  there  was  a  rubber  heel  on  the  right  boot,  but  not  on 
the  other." 

"It  seems  a  strange  thing  for  a  young  man  of  Ronald's 
position  to  have  rubber  heels  affixed  to  his  boots,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Cromering.  "I  was  under  the  impression 
that  they  were  an  economical  device  of  the  working 


64  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

classes.  But  perhaps  he  found  them  useful  to  save  his 
feet  from  jarring." 

"We  shall  find  them  useful  to  hang  him,"  responded 
Galloway  curtly.  "Let  us  proceed  to  the  pit,  gentlemen. 
May  I  ask  you  to  keep  clear  of  the  footprints?  I  do 
not  want  them  obliterated  before  I  can  take  plaster 
casts." 

They  followed  the  footsteps  up  the  rise.  Near  the 
summit  they  disappeared  in  a  growth  of  nettles,  but  re- 
appeared on  the  other  side,  skirting  a  number  of  bowl- 
shaped  depressions  clustered  in  groups  along  the  brow 
of  the  rise.  These  were  the  hut  circles — the  pit  dwellings 
of  the  early  Britons,  shallow  excavations  from  six  to 
eight  feet  deep,  all  running  into  one  another,  and  choked 
with  a  rank  growth  of  weeds.  Between  them  and  a  little 
wood  which  covered  the  rest  of  the  summit  was  an  open 
space,  with  a  hole  gaping  nakedly  in  the  bare  earth. 

"That's  the  pit  where  the  body  was  thrown,"  said 
Queensmead,  walking  to  the  brink. 

The  pit  descended  straight  as  a  mining  shaft  until  the 
sides  disappeared  in  the  interior  gloom.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  guess  at  its  depth  because  of  the  tangled  creepers 
which  lined  its  sides  and  obscured  the  view,  but  Mr. 
Cromering,  speaking  from  his  extensive  knowledge  of 
Norfolk  geology,  said  it  was  fully  thirty  feet  deep.  He 
added  that  there  was  considerable  difference  of  opinion 
among  antiquaries  to  account  for  its  greater  depth. 
Some  believed  the  pit  was  simply  a  larger  specimen  of 
the  adjoining  hut  circles,  running  into  a  natural  under- 
ground passage  which  had  previously  existed.  But  the 
more  generally  accepted  theory  was  that  the  hut  circles 
marked  the  site  of  a  prehistoric  village,  and  the  deeper 
pit  had  been  the  quarry  from  which  the  Neolithic  men 
had  obtained  the  flints  of  which  they  made  their  imple- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  65 

ments.  These  flints  were  imbedded  in  the  chalk  a  long 
way  from  the  surface,  and  to  obtain  them  the  cave  men 
burrowed  deeply  into  the  clay,  and  then  excavated  hori- 
zontal galleries  into  the  chalk.  Several  of  the  red-deer 
antler  picks  which  they  used  for  the  purpose  had  been 
discovered  when  the  pit  was  first  explored  twenty-five 
years  ago. 

"Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  very  much  interested  in  the  pre- 
historic and  late  Stone  Age  remains  which  are  to  be 
found  in  abundance  along  the  Norfolk  coast,"  he  added. 
"He  has  enriched  the  national  museums  with  a  valuable 
collection  of  prehistoric  man's  implements  and  utensils, 
which  he  recovered  in  various  parts  of  Norfolk.  For 
some  time  past  he  had  been  carrying  out  explorations  in 
this  district  in  order  to  add  to  the  collection.  It  is  sad 
to  think  that  he  met  his  death  while  thus  employed,  and 
that  his  murdered  body  was  thrown  in  the  very  pit  which 
was,  as  it  were,  the  centre  of  his  explorations  and  the 
object  of  his  keenest  scientific  curiosity." 

"Did  you  ever  see  clearer  footprints?"  exclaimed  the 
more  practical-minded  Galloway.  "Look  how  deep  they 
are  near  the  edge  of  the  pit,  where  the  murderer  braced 
himself  to  throw  the  body  off  his  back  into  the  hole. 
See !  there  is  a  spot  of  blood  on  the  edge." 

It  was  as  he  had  said.  The  footprints  were  clear  and 
distinct  to  the  brink  of  the  pit,  but  fainter  as  they  turned 
away,  showing  that  the  man  who  had  carried  the  bodv 
had  stepped  more  lightly  and  easily  after  relieving  him- 
self of  his  terrible  burden. 

"I  must  take  plaster  casts  of  those  prints  before  it 
rains,"  said  Galloway.  "They  are  far  too  valuable  a 
piece  of  evidence  to  be  lost.  They  form  the  final  link 
in  the  case  against  Ronald." 


66  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"You  regard  the  case  as  conclusive,  then?"  said 
Colwyn. 

"Of  course  I  do.  It  is  now  a  simple  matter  to  recon- 
struct the  crime  from  beginning  to  end.  Ronald  got 
through  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  window  last  night  in  the  dark. 
As  the  catch  has  not  been  forced,  he  either  found  it  un- 
locked or  opened  it  with  a  knife.  After  getting  into  the 
room  he  walked  towards  the  foot  of  the  bed.  He  listened 
to  make  sure  that  Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  asleep,  and  then 
struck  the  match  I  picked  up  near  the  foot  of  the  bed,  lit 
the  candle  he  was  carrying,  put  it  on  the  table  beside  the 
bed,  and  stabbed  the  sleeping  man.  Having  secured  the 
money,  he  unlocked  the  door,  carried  the  corpse  out  on 
his  shoulder,  closed  the  door  behind  him  but  did  not  lock 
it,  then  took  the  body  downstairs,  let  himself  out  of  the 
back  door,  carried  it  up  here  and  cast  it  into  the  pit. 
That's  how  the  murder  was  committed." 

"I  agree  with  you  that  the  murderer  entered  through 
the  window,"  said  Colwyn.  "But  why  did  he  do  so  ?  It 
strikes  me  as  important  to  clear  that  up.  If  Ronald  is 
the  murderer,  why  did  he  take  the  trouble  to  enter  the 
room  from  the  outside  when  he  slept  in  the  next  room  ?" 

"Surely  you  have  not  forgotten  that  the  door  was 
locked  from  inside?  Benson  says  Mr.  Glenthorpe 
was  in  the  habit  of  locking  his  door  and  sleeping  with  the 
key  under  the  pillow.  Ronald  no  doubt  first  tried  to 
enter  the  room  by  the  door,  but,  finding  it  locked,  climbed 
out  of  his  window,  and  got  into  the  room  through  the 
other  window.  He  dared  not  break  open  the  door  for 
fear  of  disturbing  the  inmate  or  alarming  the  house." 

"Then  how  do  you  account  for  the  key  being  found 
in  the  outside  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  door  this  morning?" 

"Quite  easily.  During  the  struggle  or  in  the  victim's 
death  convulsions  the  bed-clothes  were  disarranged,  and 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  67 

Ronald  saw  the  key  beneath  the  pillow.  Or  he  may  have 
searched  for  it,  as  he  knew  he  would  need  it  before  he 
could  open  the  door  and  remove  the  body.  It  was  easy 
for  him  to  climb  through  the  window  to  commit  the  mur- 
der, but  he  couldn't  remove  the  body  that  way.  After 
finding  the  key  he  unlocked  the  door,  and  put  the  key 
in  the  outside,  intending  to  lock  the  door  and  remove  the 
key  as  he  left  the  room,  so  as  to  defer  the  discovery  that 
Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  missing  until  as  long  after  his  own 
departure  in  the  morning  as  possible.  He  may  have 
found  it  a  difficult  matter  to  stoop  and  lock  the  door 
and  withdraw  the  key  while  he  was  encumbered  with  the 
corpse,  so  left  it  in  the  door  till  he  returned  from  the  pit. 
When  he  returned  he  was  so  exhausted  with  carrying  the 
body  several  hundred  yards,  mostly  uphill,  that  he  for- 
got all  about  the  key.  That  is  my  theory  to  account  for 
the  key  being  in  the  outside  of  the  door." 

"It's  an  ingenious  one,  at  all  events,"  commented  Col- 
wyn.  "But  would  such  a  careful  deliberate  murderer 
overlook  the  key  when  he  returned?" 

"Nothing  more  likely,"  said  the  confident  superinten- 
dent. "It's  in  trifles  like  this  that  murderers  give  them- 
selves away.  The  notorious  Deeming,  who  murdered 
several  wives,  and  disposed  of  their  bodies  by  burying 
them  under  hearthstones  and  covering  them  with  cement, 
would  probably  never  have  been  caught  if  he  had  not 
taken  away  with  him  a  canary  which  belonged  to  the  last 
woman  he  murdered.  It  was  a  clue  that  couldn't  be 
missed — like  the  silk  skein  in  Fair  Rosamond's  Bower." 

"Here's  another  point :  why  did  not  Ronald,  having  dis- 
posed of  the  body,  disappear  at  once,  instead  of  waiting 
for  the  morning?" 

"Because  if  his  room  had  been  found  empty  in  the 
morning,  as  well  as  that  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's,  the  double 


68  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

disappearance  would  have  aroused  instant  suspicion  and 
search.  Ronald  gauged  the  moment  of  his  departure 
very  cleverly,  in  my  opinion.  On  the  one  hand,  he 
wanted  to  get  away  before  the  discovery  of  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe's  empty  bedroom;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
wished  to  stay  at  the  inn  long  enough  to  suggest  that  he 
had  no  reason  for  flight,  but  was  merely  compelled  to 
make  an  early  departure.  The  trouble  and  risk  he  took 
to  conceal  the  body  outside  prove  conclusively  that  he 
thought  the  pit  a  sufficiently  safe  hiding-place  to  retard 
discovery  of  the  crime  for  a  considerable  time,  and  he 
probably  thought  that  even  when  it  was  discovered  that 
Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  missing  his  absence  would  not,  at 
first,  arouse  suspicions  that  he  had  met  with  foul  play. 

"It  was  not  as  though  Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  living  at 
home  with  relatives  who  would  have  immediately  raised 
a  hue  and  cry.  He  was  a  lonely  old  man  living  in  an 
inn  amongst  strangers,  who  were  not  likely  to  be  inter- 
ested in  his  goings  and  comings.  That  suggests  another 
alternative  theory  to  account  for  the  key  in  the  door: 
Ronald  may  have  left  it  in  the  door  to  convey  the  im- 
pression that  Mr.  Glenthorpe  had  gone  out  for  an  early 
walk.  That  belief  would  at  least  gain  Ronald  a  few 
hours  to  make  good  his  escape  from  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try and  get  away  by  train  before  any  suspicions  were 
aroused.  The  fact  that  none  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  clothes 
were  missing  was  not  likely  to  be  discovered  in  an  inn 
until  suspicion  was  aroused.  Ronald  laid  his  plans  well, 
but  how  was  he  to  know  that  in  his  path  to  the  pit  he 
walked  over  soil  as  plastic  and  impressionable  as  wax  ?" 

"But  in  spite  of  that  you  assume  he  knew  exactly  where 
this  pit  was  situated?" 

"Nothing  more  likely.  It  is  well-known  to  archaeolo- 
gists. Ronald  may  well  have  heard  of  it  while  staying 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  69 

at  Durrington,  or  he  may  have  known  of  it  personally 
through  some  previous  visit  to  this  part  of  the  world. 
And  there  is  also  evidence  that  Mr.  Glenthorpe  told  him 
of  the  hut  circles  and  the  pit  during  dinner  last  night." 

"Just  one  more  doubt,  Superintendent.  How  do  you 
account  for  the  cracked  gas  globe  and  the  broken  incan- 
descent mantle?" 

"Ronald  probably  knocked  his  head  against  it  as  he  ap- 
proached the  bed,"  said  Galloway  promptly. 

"Hardly.  Ronald's  height,  according  to  the  descrip- 
tion, is  five  feet  eleven  inches.  That  happens  to  be  also 
my  height,  and  I  can  pass  under  the  gas  globe  without 
touching  it." 

"Then  it  was  broken  when  Ronald  was  carrying  the 
corpse  downstairs,"  replied  Galloway,  after  a  moment's 
reflection.  "He  carried  the  corpse  on  his  shoulders  and 
part  of  the  body  would  be  above  his  head." 

"Superintendent  Galloway  has  an  answer  for  every- 
thing," said  Colwyn  with  a  smile,  to  Mr.  Cromering. 
"He  is  persuasive  if  not  always  convincing." 

"The  case  seems  clear  enough  to  me,"  said  the  chief 
constable  thoughtfully.  "Come,  gentlemen,  let  us  return 
to  the  inn.  We  have  a  number  of  things  to  do,  and  not 
much  time  to  do  them  in." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  inn,  seen  in  the  greyer  evening  of  a  grey  day,  had 
a  stark  and  sinister  aspect,  an  atmosphere  of  mystery  and 
secretiveness,  an  air  of  solitary  aloofness  in  the  dreary 
marshes,  standing  half  shrouded  in  the  night  mists  which 
were  sluggishly  crawling  across  the  oozing  flats  from  the 
sea.  It  was  not  a  place  where  people  could  be  happy — 
this  battered  abode  of  a  past  age  on  the  edge  of  the 
North  Sea,  with  the  bitter  waters  of  the  marshes  lapping 
its  foundations,  and  the  cold  winds  for  ever  wailing 
round  its  gaunt  white  walls. 

The  portion  buried  in  the  hillside,  with  only  the  tops 
of  the  windows  peering  above,  suggested  the  hidden  holes 
and  burrowing  byways  of  a  dead  and  gone  generation  of 
smugglers  who  had  used  the  inn  in  the  heyday  of  Nor- 
folk's sea  prosperity.  It  may  have  been  a  thought  of  the 
possibilities  of  the  inn  as  a  hiding  place  which  prompted 
Mr.  Cromering  to  exclaim,  after  gazing  at  it  attentively 
for  some  seconds : 

"We  had  better  go  through  this  place  from  the  bottom." 

As  they  approached  the  inn  a  stout  short  man,  who  was 
looking  out  from  the  low  and  narrow  doorway,  retreated 
into  the  interior,  and  immediately  afterwards  the  long 
figure  of  the  innkeeper  emerged  as  though  he  had  been 
awaiting  the  return  of  the  party,  and  had  posted  some- 
body to  watch  for  them. 

The  innkeeper  showed  no  surprise  on  receiving  Mr. 
Cromering's  instruction  to  show  them  over  the  inn. 
Walking  before  them  he  led  them  along  a  side  passage 

70 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  71 

opposite  the  bar,  opening  doors  as  he  went,  and  drawing 
aside  for  them  to  enter  and  look  at  the  rooms  thus 
revealed. 

It  was  a  strange  rambling  old  place  inside,  full  of  nooks 
and  crannies,  and  unexpected  odd  corners  and  apertures, 
short  galleries  and  stone  passages  winding  everywhere 
and  leading  nowhere;  the  downstairs  rooms  on  different 
levels,  with  stone  steps  into  them,  and  queer  slits  of  win- 
dows pierced  high  up  in  the  thick  walls.  On  the  ground 
floor  a  central  passage  divided  the  inn  into  two  portions. 
On  the  one  side  were  several  rooms,  some  empty  and 
destitute  of  furniture,  others  barely  furnished  and  empty, 
and  a  big  gloomy  kitchen  in  which  a  stout  country- 
woman, who  shook  and  bobbed  at  the  sight  of  the  visitors, 
was  washing  greens  at  a  dirty  deal  table.  Off  the  kitchen 
were  two  small  rooms,  poorly  furnished  as  servants'  bed- 
rooms, and  the  windows  of  these  looked  out  on  the 
marshes  at  the  back  of  the  house.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  centre  passage  was  the  bar,  which  was  subterranean 
at  the  far  end,  with  the  cellar  adjoining  tunnelled  into 
the  hillside.  In  the  recesses  of  the  cellar  the  short  stout 
man  they  had  seen  at  the  doorway  was,  by  the  light  of 
a  tallow  candle,  affixing  a  spigot  to  one  of  the  barrels 
which  stood  against  the  earthen  wall.  Behind  the  bar 
was  a  small  bar  parlour,  and  behind  that  two  more  rooms, 
the  house  on  that  side  finishing  in  a  low  and  narrow  gal^ 
lery  running  parallel  with  the  outside  wall. 

The  staircase  upstairs  opened  into  a  stone  passage, 
running  from  the  front  of  the  inn  to  the  back.  On  the 
left-hand  side  of  the  passage,  going  from  the  head  of  the 
stairs  to  the  back  of  the  house,  were  four  rooms.  The 
first  was  a  small,  comfortably  furnished  sitting  room, 
where  Mr.  Glenthorpe  and  his  guest  had  dined  the  pre- 
vious night.  The  bed  chamber  of  the  murdered  man  ad- 


72  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

joined  this  room.  Next  came  the  room  in  which  Ronald 
had  slept,  and  then  an  empty  lumber  room.  There  were 
four  bedrooms  on  the  other  side,  all  unfurnished,  except 
one  at  the  far  end  of  the  passage,  the  lumber-room.  The 
innkeeper  explained  that  the  murdered  man  had  been  the 
sole  occupant  of  that  wing  of  the  house  until  the  previous 
night,  when  Mr.  Ronald  had  occupied  the  room  next  to 
him.  At  this  end  of  the  passage  another  and  narrower 
passage  ran  at  right  angles  along  the  back  of  the 
house,  with  several  rooms  opening  off  it  on  one  side  only. 
The  first  of  these  rooms  was  empty;  the  next  room  con- 
tained a  small  iron  bedstead,  a  chair,  and  a  table,  and  the 
innkeeper  said  that  it  was  his  bedroom.  At  the  next  door 
he  paused,  and  turning  to  Mr.  Cromering  hesitatingly  re- 
marked : 

"This  is  my  mother's  room,  sir.    She  is  an  invalid." 

"We  will  not  disturb  your  mother,  we  will  merely 
glance  into  the  room,"  said  the  kindly  chief  constable. 

"It  is  not  that,  sir.  She  is "  He  broke  off  abruptly, 

and  knocked  at  the  door. 

After  a  few  moments'  pause  there  was  the  sound  of 
somebody  within  turning  a  key  in  the  lock,  then  the  door 
was  opened  by  a  young  girl,  who,  at  the  sight  of  the  vis- 
itors, walked  hurriedly  across  to  a  bedstead  at  the  far 
end  of  the  room,  on  which  something  grey  was  moving, 
and  stood  in  front  of  it  as  though  she  would  guard  the 
occupant  of  the  bed  from  the  intruding  eyes  of  strangers. 

"It's  all  right,  Peggy,"  said  the  innkeeper.  "We  shall 
not  be  here  long.  My  daughter  is  afraid  you  will  disturb 
her  grandmother,"  he  said  turning  to  the  gentlemen.  "My 
mother  is "  A  motion  of  his  finger  towards  his  fore- 
head completed  the  sentence  more  significantly  than 
words. 

The  figure  on  the  bed  in  the  corner  was  in  the  shadow, 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  73 

but  they  could  make  it  out  to  be  that  of  an  old  and 
shrivelled  woman  in  a  grey  flannel  nightdress,  who  was 
sitting  up  in  bed,  swinging  backward  and  forward,  hold- 
ing some  object  in  her  arms,  clasped  tightly  to  her  breast, 
while  her  small  dark  eyes,  deepset  under  furrowed  brows, 
gazed  at  the  visitors  with  the  unmeaning  stare  of  an 
animal. 

But  Colwyn's  eyes  were  drawn  to  the  girl  at  the  bed- 
side. She  was  beautiful,  of  a  type  sufficiently  rare  to 
attract  attention  anywhere.  Her  delicate  profile  and 
dainty  grace  shone  in  the  shadow  of  the  sordid  room  like 
an  exquisite  picture.  He  was  aware  of  a  skin  of  trans- 
parent whiteness,  a  wistful  sensitive  mouth,  a  pair  of 
wonderful  eyes  with  the  green-grey  colour  of  the  sea  in 
their  depths,  and  a  crown  of  red-gold  hair.  She  was 
poorly,  almost  shabbily,  dressed,  but  the  crude  cheap 
garbing  of  a  country  dressmaker  was  unable  to  mar  the 
graceful  outlines  of  her  slim  young  figure.  But  it  was  the 
impassivity  of  the  face  and  detachment  of  attitude  which 
chained  Colwyn's  attention  and  stimulated  his  intellectual 
curiosity.  The  human  face  is  usually  an  index  to  the 
owner's  character,  but  this  girl's  face  was  a  mask  which 
revealed  nothing.  The  features  might  have  been  marble 
for  anything  they  displayed,  as  she  stood  by  the  bedside 
regarding  with  grave  inscrutable  eyes  the  group  of  men 
in  the  doorway.  There  was  something  pathetic  in  the 
contrast  between  her  grace  and  beauty  and  stillness  and 
the  uncouth  gestures  and  meaningless  stare  of  the  old 
woman  in  the  bed  behind  her. 

The  old  woman,  moving  from  side  to  side  with  the  un- 
happy restlessness  which  characterises  the  insane, 
dropped  over  the  side  of  the  bed  the  object  she  had  been 
nursing  in  her  arms,  and  looked  at  the  girl  with  the  dumb 
entreaty  of  an  animal.  The  girl  stooped  down  by  the  side 


74  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

of  the  bed,  picked  up  the  fallen  article,  and  restored  it  to 
the  mad  woman.  It  was  a  doll. 

Mr.  Cromering,  who  saw  the  action  and  the  article, 
flushed  like  a  man  who  had  seen  something  which  should 
be  kept  secret,  and  turned  to  leave  the  room.  The  others 
followed,  and  immediately  afterwards  they  heard  the 
door  closed  after  them,  and  the  key  turned  in  the  lock. 

Superintendent  Galloway,  who  had  more  of  the  inquir- 
ing turn  of  mind  of  the  police  official  than  the  chief  con- 
stable, asked  the  innkeeper  several  questions  about  his 
mother  and  her  condition.  The  innkeeper  said  her  in- 
sanity was  the  outcome  of  an  accident  which  had  hap- 
pened two  years  before.  She  was  sitting  dozing  by  the 
kitchen  fire  when  a  large  boiler  of  water  overturned, 
scalding  her  terribly,  and  the  shock  and  pain  had  sent  her 
mad.  She  had  never  left  the  bedroom  since,  and  had 
gradually  become  reduced  to  a  condition  of  imbecility, 
alternated  by  occasional  outbursts  of  violence. 

"Is  she  ever  allowed  out  of  the  room  ?"  asked  Super- 
intendent Galloway  quickly,  as  though  a  sudden  thought 
had  struck  him. 

"Never,  sir;  she  never  tries  to  get  out  of  bed  except 
when  she's  violent.  She  will  sit  there  for  hours,  playing 
with  a  doll,  but  when  she  has  her  paroxysms  she  runs 
round  and  round  the  room,  crying  out  as  you  heard  her 
just  now,  and  throwing  the  things  about.  Did  you  notice, 
sir,  that  there  was  no  glassware  in  the  room  ?  She  would 
do  herself  a  mischief  with  them  when  her  violent  fits 
come  on." 

"How  often  does  she  have  paroxysms  of  violent  mad- 
ness ?"  asked  the  chief  constable. 

"Not  often,  sir;  usually  about  the  turn  of  the  moon,  or 
when  there  is  a  gale  at  sea." 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  75 

"There  was  a  gale  at  sea  last  night,"  said  Colwyn. 
"Did  your  mother  have  an  attack  then  ?" 

"Peggy  said  when  she  came  downstairs  last  night  she 
thought  there  were  signs  of  an  attack  coming  on,  but 
when  I  looked  in  on  Mother  as  I  was  going  to  bed,  shortly 
before  eleven,  she  seemed  quiet  enough,  so  I  locked  her 
door  and  went  to  bed." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  leave  this  poor  mad 
woman  in  her  bedroom  all  night  alone  ?"  asked  the  chief 
constable. 

"It's  the  best  thing  to  be  done,  sir,"  replied  the  inn- 
keeper, with  an  apologetic  air.  "We  tried  having  some- 
body to  sleep  with  her,  but  it  only  made  her  worse,  and 
the  doctor  who  saw  her  last  year  said  it  wasn't  necessary. 
Peggy  is  with  her  a  lot  in  the  daytime,  and  often  until 
she  goes  to  bed.  So  she's  really  not  left  alone  very  much, 
because  Ann  goes  into  her  room  as  soon  as  she  gets  up 
in  the  morning — about  six  o'clock." 

"And  is  your  mother  always  secured  in  her  room — is 
the  door  always  locked  ?"  asked  Superintendent  Galloway. 

"Yes,  sir:  the  door  is  always  locked  inside  or  outside, 
and  when  I  go  to  bed  at  night  I  take  the  key  into  my 
room  and  hang  it  on  a  nail.  Ann  comes  in  and  gets  it 
in  the  morning." 

"You  did  that  last  night,  as  usual  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Mother  was  quiet — just  as  you  saw  her 
now.  She  is  quiet  most  of  the  time." 

"God  help  her,  poor  soul !"  exclaimed  the  chief  con- 
stable. "Where  does  this  passage  lead  to,  Benson?"  he 
asked,  as  if  to  change  the  conversation,  pointing  to  a 
gloomy  gallery  running  off  the  passage  in  which  they 
were  standing. 

"It  leads  to  two  rooms  looking  out  over  the  end  of  the 


76  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

inn,  sir,"  replied  the  innkeeper.  "They  are  the  only  two 
rooms  you  haven't  seen." 

"Who  occupies  this  room  ?"  asked  Superintendent  Gal- 
loway, opening  the  door  of  the  first,  and  disclosing  a 
small,  plainly  furnished  bedroom. 

"My  daughter,  sir." 

"The  next  one  is  empty  and  unfurnished,  like  many  of 
the  others,"  observed  the  chief  constable.  "This  place 
seems  too  big  for  you,  Benson.  Were  all  these  rooms 
destitute  of  furniture  when  you  took  over  the  inn?" 

"Not  all,  sir,  but  the  inn  being  too  big  for  me  I  sold 
the  furniture  for  what  it  would  fetch.  It  was  no  use 
to  me." 

"Why  don't  you  take  a  smaller  place  ?"  asked  Superin- 
tendent Galloway,  abruptly.  "You'll  never  do  any  good 
on  this  part  of  the  coast — it's  played  out,  and  there's  no 
population." 

"I'm  well  aware  of  that,  sir,  but  it's  difficult  for  a  man 
like  me  to  make  a  shift  once  he  gets  into  a  place.  There's 
Mother  for  one  thing." 

"She  ought  to  be  placed  in  a  lunatic  asylum,"  said  the 
superintendent,  looking  sternly  at  the  innkeeper. 

"It's  a  hard  thing,  sir,  to  put  your  own  mother  away. 
Besides,  begging  your  pardon,  she's  hardly  bad  enough 
for  a  lunatic  asylum." 

"Let  us  go  downstairs,  Galloway,  if  we  have  seen  the 
whole  of  the  inn,"  said  the  chief  constable,  breaking  into 
this  colloquy.  "Time  is  really  getting  on." 

They  went  downstairs  again  to  the  small  room  they  had 
been  shown  into  when  they  first  entered  the  inn,  Mr. 
Cromering  after  despatching  the  innkeeper  for  refresh- 
ments for  the  party  glanced  once  more  at  his  watch,  and 
remarked  to  Colwyn  that  he  was  afraid  he  would  have 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  77 

to  ask  him  to  drive  him  in  his  car  back  to  Durrington 
without  delay. 

"Galloway  will  stay  here  for  the  inquest  to-morrow," 
he  added.  "But  I  must  get  back  to  Norwich  to-night." 

"It  is  not  necessary  to  go  back  to  Durrington,  to  get 
to  Norwich,"  said  Colwyn;  "there's  a  train  passes  through 
Heathfield  on  the  branch  line,  at  5.40."  He  consulted  his 
own  watch  as  he  spoke.  "It's  now  just  four  o'clock. 
Heathfield  cannot  be  more  than  six  miles  away  across 
country.  I  can  run  you  over  there  in  twenty  minutes. 
That  would  give  you  an  hour  or  so  more  here.  I  am 
speaking  for  myself  as  well  as  you,"  he  added,  with  a 
smile.  "I  should  like  to  know  a  little  more  about  this 
case." 

"But  I  shall  be  taking  you  out  of  your  way,  and  delay- 
ing the  return  of  you  and  Sir  Henry  to  Durrington." 

"I  should  like  to  return  here  and  stay  until  after  the 
inquest.  Perhaps  Sir  Henry  would  not  mind  returning 
to  Durrington  from  Heathfield.  He  will  be  able  to  catch 
the  Durrington  train  at  Cottenden,  and  get  back  to  his 
hotel  in  time  for  dinner.  Would  you  mind,  Sir  Henry?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  replied  Sir  Henry  politely. 

"Then  I  think  I  might  stay  a  little  longer,"  said  the 
chief  constable.  "What's  the  road  like  to  Heathfield, 
Galloway?  You  know  something  about  this  part  of  the 
country." 

"Very  bad,"  replied  the  superintendent  uncompromis- 
ingly, who  had  his  own  reasons  for  wanting  to  get  rid  of 
his  superior  officer  and  the  detective. 

"It  will  be  all  right  in  daylight,  and  I'll  risk  it  coming 
back,"  said  the  detective  cheerfully. 

He  spoke  with  the  resolute  air  of  one  used  to  making 
prompt  decisions,  and  Mr.  Cromering  yielded  with  the 
feeble  smile  of  a  man  who  was  rather  glad  to  be  released 


78  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

of  the  task  of  making  up  his  own  mind.  The  entrance 
of  the  innkeeper  with  refreshments  put  an  end  to  the 
discussion.  He  thrust  upon  the  police  officials  present 
the  responsibility  of  breaking  the  licensed  hours  in  which 
liquor  might  be  drunk  in  war  time  by  serving  them  with 
sherry,  old  brandy,  and  biscuits. 

The  chief  constable  made  himself  a  party  to  this 
breach  of  the  law  by  helping  himself  to  a  glass  of  sherry. 
The  wine  was  excellent  and  dry,  and  he  poured  himself 
out  another.  The  result  of  this  stimulant  was  directly 
apparent  in  the  firm  tones  with  which  he  announced  his 
intention  of  examining  those  inmates  of  the  inn  who 
could  throw  any  light  on  the  murder  of  the  previous 
night.  He  directed  Superintendent  Galloway  to  sit  be- 
side him  and  take  notes  of  the  information  thus  elicited 
for  the  use  of  the  coroner  the  following  day. 

"I  think  it  would  be  as  well  to  begin  with  the  story  of 
the  innkeeper,"  he  added.  "Please  pull  that  bell-rope, 
Galloway." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  innkeeper  answered  the  bell  in  person,  and  was 
ordered  by  the  chief  constable  to  take  a  seat  and  tell 
everything  he  knew  about  the  previous  night's  events, 
without  equivocation  or  reserve.  He  took  a  chair  at  the 
table,  his  bright  bird's  glance  wandering  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  faces  opposite  him  as  he  smoothed  with  one 
claw-like  hand  the  thatch  of  iron-grey  hair  which  hung 
down  over  his  forehead  almost  to  his  eyes. 

"Where  shall  I  begin?"  he  asked. 

"You  had  better  start  by  telling  us  how  this  young  man 
Ronald  came  to  your  house  yesterday  afternoon,  and  then 
give  us  an  account  of  the  subsequent  events,  so  far  as 
you  know  them,"  said  the  chief  constable. 

"I  was  down  near  the  breakwater  yesterday  evening, 
setting  some  eel-lines  in  the  canal,  when  he  arrived,"  com- 
menced the  innkeeper.  "When  I  came  in,  Charles — that's 
the  waiter — told  me  there  was  a  young  gentleman  in  the 
bar  parlour  waiting  to  see  me.  I  went  into  the  parlour, 
and  saw  the  young  man  sitting  near  the  door.  He  looked 
very  tired  and  weary,  and  said  he  wished  to  stay  at  the 
inn  for  the  night." 

"How  was  he  dressed?"  asked  Superintendent  Gallo- 
way, looking  up  from  his  note-book. 

"In  a  grey  Norfolk  suit,  with  knickerbockers,  and  a 
soft  felt  hat. 

"Had  you  ever  seen  him  before?" 

"No,  sir.  He  was  a  complete  stranger  to  me.  I  could 
see  he  was  a  gentleman.  I  told  him  I  could  not  take 

79 


8o  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

him  in,  as  the  inn  was  only  a  poor  rough  place,  with  no 
accommodation  for  gentlefolk  at  the  best  of  times,  kt 
alone  war-time.  The  young  gentleman  said  he  was  very 
tired  and  would  sleep  anywhere,  and  was  not  particular 
about  food.  He  told  me  he  had  lost  his  way  on  the 
marshes,  and  a  fisherman  had  directed  him  to  the  inn." 

"Did  he  say  where  he  had  come  from?"  asked  the  chief 
constable. 

"No,  sir,  and  I  didn't  think  to  ask  him.  I  might  have 
done  so,  but  Mr.  Glenthorpe  walked  into  the  parlour  just 
then,  carrying  some  partridges  in  his  hand.  He  didn't 
see  the  young  gentleman  at  first — he  was  sitting  in  the 
corner  behind  the  door — but  told  me  to  have  one  of  the 
partridges  cooked  for  his  dinner.  They  had  just  been 
given  to  him,  he  said,  by  the  farmer  whose  land  he  was 
going  to  excavate  next  week.  As  he  turned  to  go  out 
he  saw  the  young  gentleman  sitting  in  the  corner,  and  he 
said,  in  his  hearty  way :  'Good  evening,  sir ;  it  is  not  often 
that  we  have  any  society  in  these  parts.'  The  young 
gentleman  told  him  what  he  had  told  me — how  he  had 
wandered  away  from  Durrington  and  got  lost,  and  had 
come  to  the  inn  in  the  hopes  of  getting  a  bed  for  the 
night.  'Glad  to  see  a  civilised  human  being  in  these 
parts,'  said  Mr.  Glenthorpe.  'I  hope  you'll  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  your  company  at  dinner.  Benson,  tell  Ann 
to  cook  another  partridge.'  'I  don't  know  whether  the 
innkeeper  will  allow  me  that  pleasure,'  replied  the  young 
gentleman.  'He  says  he  cannot  put  me  up  for  the  night.' 
'Of  course  he'll  put  you  up,'  said  Mr.  Glenthorpe.  'Not 
even  a  Norfolk  innkeeper  would  turn  you  out  on  to  the 
North  Sea  marshes  at  this  time  of  year.'  That  settled 
the  question,  because  I  couldn't  afford  to  offend  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe, and  besides,  his  providing  the  dinner  helped  me 
out  of  a  difficulty.  So  I  went  out  to  give  orders  about 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  81 

the  dinner,  leaving  Mr.  Glenthorpe  and  him  sitting  to- 
gether talking." 

"Did  you  get  him  to  fill  in  a  registration  form?"  asked 
Superintendent  Galloway. 

"I  forgot  to  ask  him,  sir,"  replied  the  innkeeper. 

"That  is  gross  and  inexcusable  carelessness  on  your 
part,  Benson,"  said  Galloway  sternly.  "I  shall  have  to 
report  it." 

"I  do  not  understand  much  about  these  things,  sir,"  re- 
plied the  innkeeper  apologetically.  "It  is  so  rarely  that 
we  have  a  visitor  to  the  place." 

"The  authorities  will  hold  you  responsible.  You  are 
supposed  to  know  the  law,  and  help  to  carry  it  out. 
What's  the  use  of  devising  regulations  for  the  security  of 
the  country  if  they  are  not  carried  out  ?  You  innkeepers 
and  hotelkeepers  are  really  very  careless.  Go  on  with 
your  story,  Benson." 

"He  and  Mr.  Glenthorpe  had  dinner  together  in  the 
little  upstairs  sitting  room  which  Mr.  Glenthorpe  kept 
for  his  own  private  use.  He  did  his  writing  in  it,  and 
the  flints  and  fossils  he  discovered  in  his  excavations  were 
stored  in  the  cupboards.  His  meals  were  always  taken 
up  there,  and  last  night  he  ordered  the  dinner  to  be 
taken  up  there  as  usual,  and  the  table  to  be  laid  for  two. 
Charles  waited  at  table,  but  I  was  up  there  twice — 
first  time  with  some  sherry,  and  the  second  time  was 
about  an  hour  afterwards,  when  the  gentlemen  had  fin- 
ished dinner.  I  took  up  a  bottle  of  some  old  brandy  that 
the  inn  used  to  be  famous  for — it's  the  same  that  you 
gentlemen  have  been  drinking.  When  I  knocked  at  the 
door  with  the  brandy  it  was  Mr.  Glenthorpe  who  called 
'Come  in!'  He  was  standing  in  front  of  the  fire,  with 
a  fossil  in  his  hand,  and  he  was  telling  the  young  man 


82  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

about  how  he  came  to  discover  it.  I  put  the  brandy  on 
the  table  and  left  the  room. 

"That  was  the  last  time  I  saw  him  alive.  Charles  came 
down  with  the  dinner  things  about  half-past  nine,  and 
said  he  was  not  wanted  upstairs  any  more.  Charles  went 
to  bed  shortly  afterwards — he  sleeps  in  one  of  the  two 
rooms  off  the  kitchen.  I  went  to  my  own  bedroom  before 
ten,  after  first  telling  Ann,  the  servant,  who  was  doing 
some  ironing  in  the  kitchen,  to  turn  off  the  gas  at  the 
meter  if  the  gentlemen  retired  before  she  finished,  but 
not  to  bother  if  they  were  still  sitting  up.  It  had  been 
decided  that  the  young  gentleman  should  occupy  the  bed- 
room next  to  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  and  Ann  was  a  bit  late 
with  her  ordinary  work  because  it  had  taken  her  some, 
time  to  get  his  room  ready.  The  room  had  not  been 
occupied  for  some  time,  and  she'd  had  to  air  the  bed- 
clothes and  make  the  bed  afresh. 

"The  next  morning  I  was  a  bit  late  getting  down — 
there's  nothing  to  open  the  inn  for  in  the  mornings — and 
Ann  told  me  as  soon  as  I  got  down  that  the  young  gen- 
tleman had  left  nearly  an  hour  before.  She  had  taken 
him  up  an  early  cup  of  tea  at  seven  o'clock,  and  he  opened 
the  door  to  her  knock,  and  took  it  from  her.  He  was 
fully  dressed,  except  for  his  boots,  which  he  had  in  his 
hand,  and  he  asked  her  to  clean  them,  as  he  wanted  to 
leave  at  once.  She  was  walking  away  with  the  boots, 
when  he  called  her  back  and  took  them  from  her,  saying 
that  it  didn't  matter  about  cleaning  them,  as  he  was  in  a 
hurry.  When  she  gave  him  the  boots  he  put  a  note  into 
her  hand,  and  said  that  was  to  pay  for  his  bill. 

"It  was  the  key  in  the  outside  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room 
which  led  to  us  finding  out  that  he  was  not  in  the  room. 
As  I  told  you  upstairs,  sir,  he  used  to  always  lock  his 
door  when  he  went  to  bed  and  put  the  key  under  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  83 

pillow.  Ann  noticed  the  key  in  the  outside  of  the  door 
when  she  went  up  with  his  breakfast  tray — he  never  took 
early  morning  tea  but  he  always  breakfasted  in  his  room. 
That  would  be  about  eight  o'clock.  She  thought  it 
strange  to  see  the  key  in  the  door,  and  as  she  could  get 
no  answer  to  her  knock  she  tried  the  door,  found  it  un- 
locked and  the  room  empty.  She  came  downstairs  and 
told  me.  I  thought  at  first  that  Mr.  Glenthorpe  might 
have  got  up  early  to  go  and  look  at  his  excavations,  but 
I  went  up  to  his  room  and  saw  the  signs  of  a  struggle 
and  bloodstains  on  the  bed-clothes,  and  I  knew  that  some- 
thing must  have  happened  to  him.  I  went  into  the  village 
and  told  Constable  Queensmead.  He  came  to  the  inn, 
and  made  a  search  inside  and  outside  and  found  the  foot- 
prints leading  to  the  pit  on  the  rise.  One  of  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe's  men  who  had  been  down  the  pit  for  flints  was 
lowered  by  a  rope,  and  brought  up  the  body." 

The  innkeeper  took  a  leather  wallet  from  his  pocket  and 
produced  from  it  a  Treasury  note.  "This  is  the  note  the 
young  gentleman  left  behind  with  Ann  to  pay  his  bill," 
he  explained,  pushing  it  across  the  table  to  the  chief  con- 
stable. 

"I  would  draw  your  attention,  sir,  to  the  fact  that  this 
Treasury  note  is  one  of  the  first  issue — printed  in  black 
on  white  paper,"  remarked  Superintendent  Galloway  to 
his  superior  officer.  "Constable  Queensmead  has  ascer- 
tained that  the  £300  which  Mr.  Glenthorpe  drew  out  of 
the  bank  yesterday  was  all  in  £i  notes  of  the  first  issue. 
That  money  is  missing  from  the  dead  man's  effects." 

The  chief  constable  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  note 
through  his  glasses,  and  then  passed  it  to  Colwyn,  who 
examined  it  closely,  and  took  a  note  of  the  number,  and 
held  it  up  to  the  light  to  see  the  watermark. 


84  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"Did  you  or  the  servant  find  any  weapon  in  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe's  room  ?"  asked  the  chief  constable. 

"No,  sir." 

"You  have  missed  a  knife  though,  have  you  not?"  asked 
Superintendent  Galloway. 

"Yes,  sir." 

'What  sort  of  a  knife?" 
'A  table-knife." 

"Was  it  one  of  the  knives  sent  up  to  the  sitting-room 
last  night?" 

"Yes,  sir.  At  least  Charles  says  so.  He  has  charge 
of  the  cutlery." 

"Then  Charles  had  better  tell  us  about  it,"  interposed 
the  chief  constable.  "You  say  you  went  to  bed  before 
ten  o'clock,  Benson.  Did  you  hear  anything  in  the 
night?" 

"No,  sir,  I  fell  asleep  almost  immediately.  My  room  is 
a  good  distance  from  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room." 

"I  do  not  think  we  have  any  more  questions  to  ask 
you,  Benson." 

"Pardon  the  curiosity  of  a  medical  man,  Mr.  Cromer- 
ing,"  remarked  Sir  Henry,  "but  would  it  be  possible  to 
ask  the  innkeeper  whether  he  noticed  anything  peculiar 
about  Mr.  Ronald's  demeanour,  when  he  arrived  at  the 
inn,  or  when  he  saw  him  at  dinner  subsequently?" 

"You  hear  that  question,  Benson  ?"  said  the  chief  con- 
stable. "Did  you  notice  anything  strange  about  Mr.  Ron- 
ald's conduct  when  first  he  came  to  the  inn  or  at  any 
time?" 

"I  cannot  say  I  did,  sir.  I  thought  he  looked  very  tired 
when  he  first  came  into  the  inn,  and  his  eyes  were  heavy 
as  though  with  want  of  sleep." 

"He  seemed  quite  sane  and  rational?" 

"Quite,  sir." 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  85 

"Did  you  notice  any  symptoms  of  mental  disturbance 
or  irritability  about  him  at  any  time  ?"  struck  in  Sir  Henry 
Durwood. 

"No,  sir.  He  was  a  little  bit  angry  at  first  when  I 
said  I  couldn't  take  him  in,  but  he  struck  me  as  quite  cool 
and  collected." 

Sir  Henry  looked  a  little  disappointed  at  this  reply. 
He  asked  no  more  questions,  but  entered  a  note  in  a  small 
note-book  which  he  took  from  a  waistcoat  pocket.  Mr. 
Cromering  intimated  to  the  innkeeper  that  he  had  fin- 
ished questioning  him,  and  would  like  to  examine  the 
waiter,  Charles. 

"If  you  wouldn't  mind  pulling  the  bell-rope  behind 
you,  sir,"  hinted  the  innkeeper. 

In  response  to  a  pull  at  the  old-fashioned  bell-rope,  the 
stout  country  servant,  who  had  been  washing  greens  in 
the  kitchen,  entered  the  room. 

"Where  is  Charles,  Ann?"  asked  the  innkeeper. 

"He's  in  the  kitchen  with  me,"  replied  the  woman 
nervously. 

"Then  tell  him  he  is  wanted  here  immediately." 

"You  run  your  inn  in  a  queer  sort  of  way,  Benson," 
remarked  Superintendent  Galloway,  in  his  loud  voice,  as 
the  woman  went  away  on  her  errand.  "Why  couldn't 
Charles  have  answered  the  bell  himself,  if  he  is  in  the 
kitchen?  What  does  he  wait  on,  if  not  the  bar  par- 
lour?" 

"Charles  is  stone  deaf,  sir,"  replied  the  innkeeper. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  man  who  entered  the  room  was  of  sufficiently  re- 
markable appearance  to  have  attracted  attention  any- 
where. He  was  short,  but  so  fat  that  he  looked  less  than 
his  actual  height,  which  was  barely  five  feet.  His  pon- 
derous head,  which  was  covered  with  short  stiff  black 
hair,  like  a  brush,  seemed  to  merge  into  his  body  without 
any  neck,  and  two  black  eyes  glittered  like  diamond 
points  in  the  white  expanse  of  his  hairless  face.  As  he 
advanced  towards  the  table  these  eyes  roved  quickly 
from  one  to  the  other  of  the  faces  on  the  other  side  of 
the  table.  He  was  in  every  way  a  remarkable  contrast 
to  his  employer,  and  a  painter  in  search  of  a  subject 
might  have  been  tempted  to  take  the  pair  as  models  for 
a  picture  of  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza. 

"Take  that  chair  and  answer  my  questions,"  said  Mr. 
Cromering,  addressing  the  waiter  in  a  very  loud  voice. 
"Oh,  I  forgot,"  he  added,  to  the  innkeeper.  "How  do  you 
manage  to  communicate  with  him  if  he  is  stone  deaf?" 

"Quite  easily,  sir.  Charles  understands  the  lip  lan- 
guage— he  reads  your  lips  while  you  speak.  It  is  not 
even  necessary  to  raise  your  voice,  so  long  as  you  pro- 
nounce each  word  distinctly." 

"Sit  down,  Charles — do  you  understand  me?"  said 
the  chief  constable  doubtfully.  By  way  of  helping  the 
waiter  to  comprehend  he  pointed  to  the  chair  the  inn- 
keeper had  vacated. 

The  waiter  crossed  the  room  and  took  the  chair.  Like 
so  many  fat  men,  his  movements  were  quick,  agile,  and 

86 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  87 

noiseless,  but  as  he  came  forward  it  was  noticeable  that 
his  right  arm  was  deformed,  and  much  shorter  than  the 
other. 

The  chief  constable  eyed  the  strange  figure  before  him 
in  some  perplexity,  and  the  fat  white-faced  deaf  man 
confronted  him  stolidly,  with  his  black  twinkling  eyes 
fixed  on  his  face.  His  gaze,  which  was  directed  to  the 
mouth  and  did  not  reach  the  eyes,  was  so  disconcerting 
to  Mr.  Cromering  that  he  cleared  his  throat  with  several 
nervous  "hems"  before  commencing  his  examination : 

"Your  name  is ?" 

"Charles  Lynn,  sir." 

The  reply  was  delivered  in  a  whispered  voice,  the  not 
infrequent  result  of  prolonged  deafness,  complete  iso- 
lation from  the  rest  of  humanity  causing  the  gradual  loss 
of  sound  values  in  the  afflicted  person;  but  the  whisper, 
coming  from  such  a  mountain  of  flesh,  conveyed  the 
impression  that  the  speaker's  voice  was  half-strangled  in 
layers  of  fat,  and  with  difficulty  gasped  a  way  to  the  air. 
Mr.  Cromering  looked  hard  at  the  waiter  as  though  sus- 
pecting him  of  some  trick,  but  Charles'  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  mouth  of  his  interrogator,  awaiting  his  next  ques- 
tion. 

"I  understand  that  you  waited  on  the  two  gentlemen 
in  the  upstairs  sitting-room  last  night" — Mr.  Cromering 
still  spoke  in  such  an  unnecessarily  loud  voice  that  he 
grew  red  in  the  face  with  the  exertion — "the  gentleman 
who  was  murdered,  and  the  young  man  Ronald,  who 
came  to  the  inn  last  night.  Do  you  hear  me?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  hear  you.     I  waited  on  the  gentlemen,  sir." 

"Very  well.  I  want  you  to  tell  us  all  that  took  place 
between  these  gentlemen  while  you  were  in  the  room. 
You  were  there  all  through  the  dinner,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  sir,  but  I  didn't  hear  all  of  the  conversation  be- 


88  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

cause  of  my  infirmity."  He  touched  his  ears  as  he 
spoke.  "I  heard  some  remarks  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's,  be- 
cause he  told  me  to  stand  opposite  him  and  watch  his 
lips  for  orders,  but  I  didn't  hear  much  of  what  the  young 
gentleman  said,  because  I  was  standing  behind  his  chair 
most  of  the  time  so  as  to  see  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  lips 
better." 

"Well,  tell  us  all  you  did  gather  of  the  conversation, 
and  everything  you  saw." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir" — the  interruption  came  from 
Superintendent  Galloway — "but  would  it  not  be  advis- 
able to  get  from  the  waiter  first  something  of  what 
passed  between  him  and  Ronald  when  Ronald  came  to 
the  inn  last  night?  The  waiter  was  the  first  to  see  him, 
Benson  says." 

"Quite  right.  I  had  forgotten.  Tell  us,  Charles, 
what  passed  when  Ronald  first  came  to  the  inn  in  the 
afternoon." 

"It  was  between  five  and  six  o'clock,  sir,  when  the 
young  gentleman  came  to  the  front  door  and  asked  for 
the  landlord.  I  told  him  he  was  out,  but  would  be  back 
shortly.  The  young  gentleman  said  he  was  very  tired, 
as  he  had  walked  a  long  distance  and  lost  his  way  in  the 
marshes,  and  would  I  show  him  into  a  private  room  and 
send  him  some  refreshments.  I  took  him  into  the  bar 
parlour — this  room,  sir — and  brought  him  refreshments. 
He  seemed  very  tired — hardly  able  to  lift  one  leg  after 
the  other." 

"Did  he  look  ill— or  strange?" 

"I  didn't  notice  anything  strange  about  him,  sir,  but 
he  dropped  into  a  chair  as  though  he  was  exhausted,  and 
told  me  to  send  the  landlord  to  him  as  soon  as  he  came 
in.  I  left  him  sitting  there,  and  when  Mr.  Benson  re- 
turned I  told  him,  and  he  went  in  to  him.  I  didn't  see 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  89 

the  young  gentleman  again  until  I  waited  on  him  and  Mr. 
Glenthorpe  at  dinner  in  the  upstairs  sitting-room." 
"Very  good.  Tell  us  what  happened  there." 
"I  laid  the  table,  and  took  up  the  dinner  at  half-past 
seven.  Those  were  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  orders.  When  I 
went  up  the  first  time  the  table  was  covered  with  flints 
and  fossils,  which  Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  showing  the 
young  gentleman,  and  I  helped  Mr.  Glenthorpe  put  these 
back  into  the  cupboards,  and  then  I  laid  the  table. 
When  I  took  up  the  dinner  the  gentlemen  sat  down  to  it, 
and  Mr.  Glenthorpe  rang  for  Mr.  Benson,  and  told  him 
to  bring  up  some  sherry.  When  the  sherry  came  up  Mr. 
Glenthorpe  told  the  young  gentleman  that  it  was  a  special 
wine  sent  down  by  his  London  wine  merchants,  and  he 
asked  Mr.  Ronald  what  he  thought  of  it.  Mr.  Ronald 
said  he  thought  it  was  an  excellent  dry  wine.  The  gen- 
tlemen didn't  talk  much  during  dinner,  though  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe was  a  little  upset  about  the  partridges.  He  said 
they  had  been  cooked  too  dry.  He  asked  the  young  gen- 
tleman what  he  thought  of  them,  but  I  don't  know  what 
he  replied,  for  I  was  not  watching  his  lips. 

"Mr.  Glenthorpe  quite  recovered  himself  by  the  time 
coffee  was  served,  and  was  talking  a  lot  about  his  re- 
searches in  the  neighbourhood.  It  was  very  learned 
talk,  but  it  seemed  to  interest  Mr.  Ronald,  for  he  asked 
a  number  of  questions.  Mr.  Glenthorpe  seemed  very 
pleased  with  his  interest,  and  told  him  about  a  valuable 
discovery  made  in  a  field  near  what  he  called  the  hut 
circles.  He  said  he  had  bought  the  field  off  the  farmer 
for  £300,  and  was  going  to  commence  his  excavations 
immediately.  As  the  farmer  refused  to  take  a  cheque 
for  the  land  he  had  been  over  to  the  bank  at  Heathfield 
for  the  money,  and  had  brought  it  back  with  him  so  as 
to  pay  it  over  in  the  morning  and  take  possession  of  the 


90  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

field.  Mr.  Glenthorpe  complained  that  the  bank  had 
made  him  take  all  the  money  in  Treasury  notes,  and  he 
took  them  out  of  his  pocket  and  showed  them  to  the 
young  gentleman,  saying  how  bulky  they  were,  and  point- 
ing out  that  they  were  all  of  the  first  issue." 

"And  what  did  Ronald  say  to  that?" 

If  the  chief  constable's  question  covered  a  trap,  the 
waiter  seemed  unconscious  of  it. 

"I  wasn't  looking  at  him,  sir,  and  did  not  hear  his 
reply.  After  putting  the  money  back  in  his  pocket,  Mr. 
Glenthorpe  told  me  to  go  downstairs  and  tell  Mr.  Benson 
to  bring  up  some  of  the  old  brandy.  Mr.  Benson  came 
back  with  me,  and  Mr.  Glenthorpe  took  the  bottle  from 
him  and  filled  the  glasses  himself,  telling  the  young  gen- 
tleman that  the  brandy  was  the  best  in  England,  a  relic 
of  the  old  smuggling  days,  but  far  too  good  for  scoun- 
drels who  had  never  paid  the  King's  revenue  one  half- 
penny. Then  when  Mr.  Benson  had  left  the  room  he 
began  to  talk  about  the  field  again,  and  how  anxious  he 
was  to  start  the  excavations.  That  was  about  all  I 
heard,  sir,  for  shortly  afterwards  Mr.  Glenthorpe  told 
me  to  clear  away  the  things,  which  took  me  several  trips 
downstairs,  because,  not  having  the  full  use  of  my  right 
hand,  I  have  to  use  a  small  tray.  It  was  not  till  this 
morning,  when  I  was  cleaning  the  cutlery,  that  I  noticed 
that  one  of  the  knives  I  had  taken  upstairs  the  night 
before  was  missing.  I  think  that  is  all,  sir." 

The  silence  which  followed,  broken  only  by  the  rapid 
travelling  of  Superintendent  Galloway's  pen  across  the 
paper,  revealed  how  intently  the  fat  man's  auditors  had 
followed  his  whispered  recital  of  the  events  before  the 
murder.  It  was  Superintendent  Galloway  who,  putting 
down  his  fountain  pen,  asked  the  waiter  to  describe  the 
knife  he  had  missed. 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  91 

"It  was  a  small,  white-handled  knife,  sir — not  one  of 
the  dinner  knives,  but  one  of  the  smaller  ones." 

"Are  you  sure  it  was  one  of  the  knives  you  took  up- 
stairs last  night?" 

"Quite  sure,  sir.  We  are  very  short  of  good  cutlery, 
and  I  picked  out  this  knife  to  put  by  the  young  gentle- 
man's plate  because  it  was  a  very  good  one.  It  and  the 
carving-knife  are  the  only  two  knives  we  have  in  that 
particular  white-handled  pattern." 

"Was  this  knife  sharp?" 

"Very  sharp,  with  a  rather  thin  blade.  I  keep  all  my 
cutlery  in  good  order,  sir." 

"You  seem  to  have  heard  a  lot  that  passed  last  night 
in  spite  of  your  deafness,"  said  Superintendent  Galloway, 
in  the  blustering  manner  he  had  found  very  useful  in 
browbeating  rural  witnesses  in  the  police  courts.  "Is  it 
customary  for  waiters  to  listen  to  everything  that  is  said 
when  they  are  waiting  at  table  ?" 

"I  did  not  hear  everything,  sir,"  rejoined  the  waiter, 
and  his  soft  whisper  was  in  striking  contrast  to  the 
superintendent's  hectoring  tones.  "I  explained  to  the 
other  gentleman  that  I  heard  very  little  the  young  gentle- 
man said,  because  I  wasn't  watching  his  lips.  It  was 
principally  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  part  of  the  conversation 
I  have  related.  I  heard  almost  everything  he  said  be- 
cause I  was  watching  his  lips  closely  the  whole  of  the 
time." 

"Why?"  snapped  Superintendent  Galloway. 

"It  was  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  strict  instructions  that  I  was 
to  watch  his  lips  closely  every  time  I  waited  on  him, 
because  of  my  infirmity.  He  disliked  very  much  being 
waited  on  by  a  deaf  waiter  when  first  he  came  to  the 
inn.  He  said  he  didn't  want  to  have  to  bellow  out  when 
he  wanted  anything.  But  when  he  found  that  I  could 


92  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

understand  lip  language,  and  could  follow  what  he  was 
saying  by  watching  his  lips,  he  allowed  me  to  wait  on 
him,  but  he  gave  me  strict  instructions  never  to  take  my 
eyes  off  him  when  I  was  waiting  on  him,  because  he 
disliked  having  to  repeat  an  order." 

At  the  request  of  Sir  Henry,  Superintendent  Galloway 
asked  the  waiter  if  he  had  noticed  anything  peculiar  in 
the  actions  of  the  murdered  man's  guest  during  the  din- 
ner. The  waiter  replied  that  he  had  not  noticed  the 
young  gentleman  particularly.  So  far  as  his  observation 
went  the  young  gentleman  had  acted  just  like  an  ordinary 
young  gentleman,  and  he  had  noticed  nothing  strange  or 
eccentric  about  him. 

Mr.  Cromering  decided  to  occupy  the  remaining  time 
at  his  disposal  by  questioning  Ann.  The  stout  servant 
was  brought  from  the  kitchen  in  a  state  of  trepidation, 
and,  after  curtsying  awkwardly  to  the  assembled  gentle- 
men, flopped  heavily  into  a  chair,  covered  her  face  with 
her  apron,  and  burst  into  sobs.  Her  story — which  was 
extracted  from  her  with  much  difficulty — bore  out  the 
innkeeper's  account  of  her  early  morning  interview  with 
Ronald.  She  said  the  poor  young  gentleman  had  opened 
the  door  when  she  knocked  with  his  tea.  He  was  fully 
dressed,  with  his  boots  in  his  hand,  and  he  said  he 
wouldn't  wait  for  any  breakfast,  though  she  had  offered 
to  cook  him  some  fresh  fish  the  master  had  caught  the 
day  before.  He  asked  her  to  clean  his  boots,  but  as  she 
was  carrying  them  away  he  called  her  back  and  said 
he  would  wear  them  as  they  were.  They  were  all 
covered  with  mud — a  regular  mask  of  mud.  She  wanted 
to  rub  the  mud  off,  but  he  said  that  didn't  matter :  he  was 
in  a  hurry  to  get  away.  While  she  had  them  in  her 
hands  she  turned  them  up  and  looked  at  the  bottoms, 
intending  to  put  them  to  the  kitchen  fire  to  dry  them  if 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  93 

the  soles  were  wet,  and  it  was  then  she  noticed  that  there 
was  a  circular  rubber  heel  on  one  which  was  missing  on 
the  other — only  the  iron  peg  being  left.  She  took  par- 
ticular notice  of  the  peg,  because  she  intended  to  hammer 
it  down  in  the  kitchen,  thinking  it  must  be  very  uncom- 
fortable to  walk  on,  but  the  young  gentleman  didn't  give 
her  the  chance — he  just  took  the  boots  from  her  and 
walked  into  his  room,  shutting  the  door  behind  him. 

Thus  far  Ann  proceeded,  between  convulsive  sobs  and 
jelly-like  tremors  of  her  fat  frame.  By  dint  of  further 
questioning,  it  was  elicited  from  her  that  during  this  col- 
loquy at  the  bedroom  door  the  young  gentleman  had  put  a 
pound  note  into  her  hand,  and  told  her  to  give  it  to  her 
master  in  payment  of  his  bill.  "It  won't  be  so  much  as 
that,  sir,"  she  had  said.  "What  about  the  change?" 

"Oh,  damn  the  change !"  the  young  gentleman  had  said, 
very  impatient-like,  and  then  he  had  said,  "Here's  some- 
thing for  yourself,"  and  put  five  shillings  into  her  hand. 

"Did  the  young  gentleman  seem  at  all  excited  during 
the  time  you  saw  him?"  asked  the  chief  constable,  an- 
ticipating the  inevitable  question  from  Sir  Henry. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  excited,  sir.  He 
seemed  rarely  impatient  to  be  gone,  though  anybody 
might  be  excited  at  having  to  walk  across  them  nasty 
marshes  in  the  morning  mist  without  a  bite  to  stay  the 
stomach.  I  only  hope  he  didn't  catch  a  chill,  the  poor 
young  man." 

Further  questions  on  this  point  only  brought  forth  an- 
other shower  of  tears,  and  a  sobbing  asseveration  that  she 
hadn't  taken  particular  notice  of  the  young  gentleman, 
who  was  a  kind,  liberal-hearted  gentleman,  no  matter 
what  some  folk  might  think.  It  was  evident  that  the  tip 
of  five  shillings  had  won  her  heart. 

The  chief  constable  waited  for  the  storm  to  subside 


94  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

before  he  was  able  to  extract  the  information  that  Ann 
hadn't  seen  the  young  gentleman  leave  the  house.  He 
had  gone  when  she  took  up  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  breakfast 
nearly  an  hour  later,  and  made  the  discovery  that  the 
key  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room  was  in  the  outside  of  the 
door,  and  his  room  empty.  The  young  gentleman  could 
easily  have  left  the  inn  without  being  seen,  for  she  and 
Charles  were  in  the  kitchen,  and  nobody  else  was  down- 
stairs at  the  time. 

It  was  in  response  to  Colwyn's  whispered  suggestion 
that  the  chief  constable  asked  Ann  if  she  had  turned  off 
the  gas  at  the  meter  the  previous  night.  Yes,  she  had, 
she  said.  She  heard  the  gentlemen  leave  the  sitting- 
room  upstairs  and  say  good-night  to  each  other  as  they 
went  to  their  bedrooms,  and  she  turned  off  the  gas  at 
the  meter  underneath  the  stair  five  minutes  afterwards, 
when  she  had  finished  her  ironing,  and  went  to  bed  her- 
self. That  would  be  about  half-past  ten. 

Mr.  Cromering,  who  did  not  understand  the  purport 
of  the  question,  was  satisfied  with  the  answer,  and  al- 
lowed the  servant  to  retire.  But  Colwyn,  as  he  went 
out  to  the  front  to  get  the  motor  ready  for  the  journey 
to  Heathfield,  was  of  a  different  opinion. 

"Ann  may  have  turned  off  the  gas  as  she  said,"  he 
thought,  "but  it  was  turned  on  again  during  the  night. 
Did  Ann  know  this,  and  keep  it  back,  or  was  it  turned 
on  and  off  again  without  her  knowledge?" 


CHAPTER  IX 

"EVERYTHING  fits  in  beautifully,"  said  Superintendent 
Galloway  confidently.  "I  never  knew  a  clearer  case.  All 
that  remains  for  me  to  do  is  to  lay  my  hands  on  this 
chap  Ronald,  and  an  intelligent  jury  will  see  to  the  rest." 

The  police  official  and  the  detective  had  dined  together 
in  the  small  bar  parlour  on  Colwyn's  return  from  driv- 
ing Mr.  Cromering  and  Sir  Henry  Durwood  to  Heath- 
field  Station.  The  superintendent  had  done  more  than 
justice  to  the  meal,  and  a  subsequent  glass  of  the  smug- 
glers' brandy  had  so  mellowed  the  milk  of  human  kind- 
ness in  his  composition  that  he  felt  inclined  for  a  little 
friendly  conversation  with  his  companion. 

"You  are  very  confident,1'  said  Colwyn. 

"Of  course  I  am  confident.  I  have  reason  to  be  so. 
Everything  I  have  seen  to-day  supports  my  original 
theory  about  this  crime." 

"And  what  is  your  theory  as  to  the  manner  in  which 
this  crime  was  committed?  I  have  gathered  a  general 
idea  of  the  line  you  are  taking  by  listening  to  your  con- 
versation this  afternoon,  but  I  should  like  you  to  state 
your  theory  in  precise  terms.  It  is  an  interesting  case, 
with  some  peculiar  points  about  it  which  a  frank  dis- 
cussion might  help  to  elucidate." 

Superintendent  Galloway  looked  suspiciously  at  Col- 
wyn out  of  his  small  hard  grey  eyes.  His  official  mind 
scented  an  attempt  to  trap  him,  and  his  Norfolk  prudence 
prompted  him  to  get  what  he  could  from  the  detective 
but  to  give  nothing  away  in  return. 

95 


96  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"I  see  you're  suspicious  of  me,  Galloway,"  continued 
Colwyn  with  a  smile.  "You've  heard  of  city  detectives 
and  their  ways,  and  you're  thinking  to  yourself  that  a 
Norfolk  man  is  more  than  a  match  for  any  of  them." 

This  sally  was  so  akin  to  what  was  passing  in  the 
superintendent's  mind  that  a  grim  smile  momentarily  re- 
laxed his  rugged  features. 

"My  thoughts  are  my  own,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 

"Not  when  you've  just  given  them  away,"  replied  Col- 
wyn, in  a  bantering  tone.  "My  dear  Galloway,  your  in- 
genuous countenance  is  a  mirror  to  your  mind,  in  which 
he  who  runs  may  read.  But  you  are  quite  wrong  in 
suspecting  me.  I  have  no  ulterior  motive.  My  only 
interest  in  this  crime — or  in  any  crime — is  to  solve  it. 
Anybody  can  have  the  credit,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned. 
Newspaper  notoriety  is  nothing  to  me." 

"You've  managed  to  get  a  good  deal  of  it  without 
looking  for  it,  then,"  retorted  the  superintendent  cannily. 
"It  was  only  the  other  day  I  was  reading  a  long  article 
in  one  of  the  London  newspapers  about  you,  praising 
you  for  tracking  the  criminals  in  the  Treasury  Bonds 
case.  The  police  were  not  mentioned." 

"Fame — or  notoriety — sometimes  comes  to  those  who 
seek  it  least,"  replied  the  detective  genially.  "I  assure 
you  that  article  came  unasked.  I'm  a  stranger  to  the 
political  art  of  keeping  sweet  with  the  journalists — it 
was  a  statesman,  you  know,  who  summed  up  gratitude 
as  a  lively  sense  of  favours  to  come.  Now,  in  this  case, 
let  us  play  fair,  actuated  by  the  one  desire  to  see  that 
justice  is  done.  This  case  does  not  strike  me  as  quite 
such  a  simple  affair  as  it  seems  to  you.  You  approach 
it  with  a  preconceived  theory  to  which  you  are  deter- 
mined to  adhere.  Your  theory  is  plausible  and  con- 
vincing— to  some  extent — but  that  is  all  the  more 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  97 

reason  why  you  should  examine  and  test  every  link  in 
the  chain.  You  cannot  solve  difficult  points  by  ignoring 
them  and,  to  my  mind,  there  are  some  difficult  and  per- 
plexing features  about  this  case  which  do  not  altogether 
fit  in  with  your  theory." 

"If  my  mind  is  an  open  book  to  you  perhaps  you'll 
tell  me  what  my  theory  is,"  responded  Superintendent 
Galloway,  sourly. 

"Yes;  that's  a  fair  challenge."  The  detective  pushed 
back  his  chair,  and  stood  with  his  back  against  the 
mantelpiece,  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth.  "Your  theory  in 
this  case  is  that  chance  and  opportunity  have  made  the 
crime  and  the  criminal.  Chance  brings  this  young  man 
Ronald  to  this  lonely  Norfolk  inn,  and  sees  to  it  that  he 
is  allowed  to  remain  when  the  landlord  wants  to  turn 
him  away.  Chance  throws  him  into  the  society  of  a 
man  of  culture  and  education,  who  is  only  too  glad  of  the 
opportunity  of  relieving  the  tedium  of  his  surroundings 
in  this  rough  uncultivated  place  by  passing  a  few  hours 
in  the  companionship  of  a  man  of  his  own  rank  of  life. 
Chance  contrives  that  this  gentleman  shall  have  in  his 
possession  a  large  sum  of  money  which  he  shows  to 
Ronald,  who  is  greatly  in  need  of  money.  Opportunity 
suggests  the  murder,  provides  the  weapon,  and  gives 
Ronald  the  next  room  to  his  intended  victim  in  a  wing 
of  the  inn  occupied  by  nobody  else. 

"Your  theory  as  to  how  the  murder  was  actually  com- 
mitted strikes  me  as  possible  enough — up  to  a  certain 
point.  You  think  that  Ronald,  after  waiting  until  every- 
body in  the  inn  is  likely  to  be  asleep,  steals  out  of  his 
own  room  to  the  room  of  his  victim.  He  finds  the  door 
locked.  Chance,  however,  has  thoughtfully  provided 
him  with  a  window  opening  on  to  a  hillside,  which  en- 
ables him  to  climb  out  of  his  own  window  and  into 


98  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

the  window  of  the  next  room.  He  gets  in,  murders  Mr. 
Glenthorpe,  secures  his  money,  and,  finding  the  key  of 
his  bedroom  under  the  pillow,  carries  the  body  of  his 
victim  downstairs,  and  outside,  casting  it  into  a  deep 
hole  some  distance  from  the  house,  in  the  hope  of  pre- 
venting or  retarding  discovery  of  the  crime.  Through 
an  oversight  he  forgets  the  key  in  the  door,  which  he 
had  placed  in  the  outside  before  carrying  off  the  body, 
intending  when  he  returned  to  lock  the  door  and  carry 
the  key  away  with  him. 

"Next  morning  you  have  the  highly  suspicious  cir- 
cumstance of  the  young  man's  hurried  departure,  his  re- 
fusal to  have  his  boots  cleaned,  the  incident  of  the  note, 
and  the  unshakable  fact  that  the  footprints  leading  to 
and  from  the  pit  where  the  body  was  discovered  had 
been  made  by  his  boots. 

"As  a  further  contributory  link  in  the  chain  of  evi- 
dence against  Ronald,  you  intend  to  use  the  fact  that  he 
was  turned  out  of  the  Grand  Hotel,  Durrington,  the 
previous  day  because  he  couldn't  pay  his  hotel  bill,  be- 
cause this  fact,  combined  with  the  fact  that  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe showed  him  the  money  he  had  drawn  from  the 
bank  at  Heathfield,  supplies  a  strong  motive  for  the 
crime.  In  this  connection  you  intend  to  try  to  estab- 
lish that  the  Treasury  note  which  Ronald  left  to  pay  his 
inn  bill  was  one  of  those  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  possession, 
because  it  happens  to  be  one  of  the  First  Treasury  issue, 
printed  in  black  and  white,  and  all  Mr.  Glenthorpe's 
notes  were  of  that  issue,  according  to  the  murdered 
man's  own  statement.  That,  I  take  it,  is  the  police  theory 
of  this  case." 

"It  is,"  said  Superintendent  Galloway.  "You've  put 
it  a  bit  more  fancifully  than  I  should,  but  it  comes  to 
the  same  thing.  But  what  do  you  make  out  of  the  inci- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  99 

dent  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  Durrington,  yesterday  morn- 
ing? You  were  there,  and  saw  it  all.  Does  it  seem 
strange  to  you  that  Ronald  should  have  come  straight  to 
this  inn  and  committed  a  murder  after  making  that  scene 
at  the  hotel  ?  Do  you  think  it  suggests  that  Ronald  has, 
well — impulses  of  violence,  let  us  say?"  Superintendent 
Galloway  poured  himself  out  another  glass  of  old  brandy 
and  sipped  it  deliberately,  watching  the  detective  cau- 
tiously between  the  sips. 

Colwyn  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  was  quick  to 
comprehend  the  double-barrelled  motive  which  underlay 
the  superintendent's  question,  and  he  had  no  intention  of 
letting  the  police  officer  pump  him  for  his  own  ends. 

"Sir  Henry  Durwood  would  be  better  able  to  answer 
that  question  than  I,"  he  said. 

"I  asked  him  when  we  were  driving  over  here  this 
afternoon,  but  he  shut  up  like  an  oyster — you  know 
what  these  professional  men  are,  with  their  stiff-and- 
starched  ideas  of  etiquette,"  grumbled  the  superintendent. 

A  flicker  of  amusement  showed  in  Colwyn's  eyes. 
Really  the  superintendent  was  easily  drawn,  for  an  East 
Anglian  countryman.  "After  all,  it  is  only  Sir  Henry 
Durwood's  opinion  that  Ronald  intended  violence  at  the 
Grand,"  he  said.  "Sir  Henry  did  not  give  him  the  op- 
portunity to  carry  out  his  intention — if  he  had  such  an 
intention." 

"Exactly  my  opinion,"  exclaimed  Superintendent  Gal- 
loway, eagerly  rising  to  the  fly.  "I  have  ascertained 
that  Ronald's  behaviour  during  the  time  he  was  staying 
at  the  hotel  was  that  of  an  ordinary  sane  Englishman. 
The  proprietor  says  he  was  quite  a  gentleman,  with 
nothing  eccentric  or  peculiar  about  him,  and  the  servants 
say  the  same.  They  are  the  best  judges,  after  all.  And 
nobody  noticed  anything  peculiar  about  him  at  the  break- 


ioo  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

fast  table  except  yourself  and  Sir  Henry — and  what 
happened?  Nothing,  except  that  he  was  a  bit  excited — 
and  no  wonder,  after  the  young  man  had  just  been 
ordered  to  leave  the  hotel.  Then  Sir  Henry  grabbed 
hold  of  him  and  he  fainted — or  pretended  to  faint;  it 
may  have  been  all  part  of  his  game.  Sir  Henry  may 
have  thought  he  intended  to  do  something  or  other,  but 
no  British  judge  would  admit  that  as  evidence  for  the 
defence.  This  chap  Ronald  is  as  sane  as  you  or  me, 
and  a  deep,  cunning  cold-blooded  scoundrel  to  boot.  If 
the  defence  try  to  put  up  a  plea  of  insanity  they'll  find 
themselves  in  the  wrong  box.  There's  not  a  jury  in  the 
world  that  wouldn't  hang  him  on  the  evidence  against 
him." 

This  time  Colwyn  could  not  forbear  smiling  at  the 
guileless  way  in  which  Superintendent  Galloway  had  re- 
vealed the  thoughts  which  had  been  passing  through  his 
mind.  But  his  amusement  was  momentary,  and  it  was 
in  a  grave,  earnest  tone  that  he  replied: 

"The  hotel  incident  is  a  puzzling  one,  but  I  agree  with 
you  that  it  doesn't  enter  into  the  police  case  against 
Ronald.  It  is  your  duty  to  deal  with  the  facts  of  the 
case,  and  if  you  think  that  Ronald  committed  this  mur- 
der  " 

"If  I  think  that  Ronald  committed  this  murder!" 
Superintendent  Galloway's  interruption  was  both  amazed 
and  indignant.  "I'm  as  certain  he  committed  the  murder 
as  if  I  saw  him  do  it  with  my  own  eyes.  Did  you,  or  any- 
body else,  ever  see  a  clearer  case  ?" 

"It  is  because  the  circumstantial  evidence  against  him 
is  so  strong  that  I  speak  as  I  do,"  continued  Colwyn,  in 
the  same  earnest  tones.  "Innocent  men  have  been 
hanged  in  England  before  now  on  circumstantial  evi- 
dence. It  is  for  that  very  reason  that  we  should  guard 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  101 

ourselves  against  the  tendency  to  accept  the  circum- 
stantial evidence  against  him  as  proof  of  his  guilt,  instead 
of  examining  all  the  facts  with  an  open  mind.  We  are 
the  investigators  of  the  circumstances:  it  is  not  for  us 
to  prejudge.  That  is  the  worst  of  circumstantial  evi- 
dence: it  tends  to  prejudgment,  and  sometimes  to  the 
ignoring  of  circumstances  and  facts  which  might  tell  in 
favour  of  the  suspect,  if  they  were  examined  with  a 
more  impartial  eye.  It  is  for  these  reasons  that  I  am 
always  careful  to  suspend  judgment  in  cases  of  circum- 
stantial evidence,  and  examine  carefully  even  the  small- 
est trifles  which  might  tell  in  favour  of  the  man  to  whom 
circumstantial  evidence  points." 

"Have  you  discovered  anything,  since  you  have  been 
at  the  inn,  which  shakes  the  theory  that  Ronald  is  the 
murderer  ?" 

"I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  case  is  much 
more  complex  and  puzzling  than  was  at  first  supposed." 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  makes  you  think  that," 
returned  Superintendent  Galloway.  "Up  to  the  present 
I  have  seen  nothing  to  shake  my  conviction  that  Ronald 
is  the  guilty  man.  What  have  you  discovered  that 
makes  you  think  otherwise?" 

"I  do  not  go  as  far  as  that — yet.  But  I  have  come 
across  certain  things  which,  to  my  mind,  need  elucidation 
before  it  is  possible  to  pronounce  definitely  on  Ronald's 
guilt  or  innocence.  To  take  them  consecutively,  let  me 
repeat  that  I  cannot  reconcile  Ronald's  excitable  conduct 
at  the  Durrington  hotel  with  his  supposed  actions  at  the 
inn.  In  the  former  case  he  behaved  like  a  man  who, 
whether  insane  or  merely  excited,  had  not  the  slightest 
fear  of  the  consequences.  At  this  inn  he  acted  like  a 
crafty  cautious  scoundrel  who  had  weighed  the  conse- 
quences of  his  acts  beforehand,  and  took  every  possible 


102  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

precaution  to  save  his  own  skin.  You  see  nothing  in- 
consistent in  this " 

"I  do  not,"  interjected  the  superintendent  firmly. 

"Quite  so.  Then,  the  next  point  that  perplexes  me  is 
why  Ronald  took  the  trouble  to  carry  the  body  of  his 
victim  to  the  pit  and  throw  it  in." 

"For  the  motive  of  concealment,  and  to  retard  dis- 
covery. But  for  the  footprints  it  would  probably  have 
given  him  several  days — perhaps  weeks — in  which  to 
make  good  his  escape." 

"Did  he  not  run  a  bigger  risk  of  discovery  by  carrying 
the  body  downstairs  in  an  occupied  house,  and  across 
several  hundred  yards  of  open  land  close  to  the  village  ?" 

"Not  in  a  remote  spot  like  this.  They  keep  early  hours 
in  this  part  of  the  country.  I  guarantee  if  you  walked 
through  the  village  now  you  wouldn't  see  a  soul  stirring." 

"Ronald  was  not  likely  to  know  that.  Next,  how  did 
Ronald,  a  stranger  to  the  place,  know  the  locality  of  this 
pit  so  accurately  as  to  be  able  to  walk  straight  to  it  ?" 

"Easily.  He  might  have  approached  the  inn  from  that 
side,  and  passed  it  on  his  way.  And  nothing  is  more 
likely  than  Mr.  Glenthorpe  would  tell  him  about  the  pit 
in  the  course  of  his  conversation  about  the  excavations. 
There  is  also  the  possibility  that  Ronald  knew  of  the 
existence  of  the  pit  from  a  previous  visit  to  this  part 
of  the  country." 

"My  next  point  is  that  Ronald  was  put  to  sleep  in 
what  he  imagined  was  an  upstairs  bedroom.  How  did 
he  discover  that  his  bedroom,  and  the  bedroom  of  Mr. 
Glenthorpe's  adjoining,  opened  on  to  a  hillside  which 
enabled  him  to  get  out  of  one  bedroom  and  into  the 
other?" 

"Again,  Mr.  Glenthorpe  probably  told  him — he  seems 
to  have  been  a  garrulous  old  chap,  according  to  all  ac- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  103 

counts.  Or  Ronald  may  have  looked  out  of  his  window 
when  he  was  retiring,  and  seen  it  for  himself.  I  always 
look  out  of  a  bedroom  window,  and  particularly  if  it  is 
a  strange  bedroom,  before  getting  into  bed." 

"These  are  matters  of  opinion,  and,  though  your  ex- 
planations are  possible  ones,  I  do  not  agree  with  you. 
We  are  looking  at  this  case  from  entirely  different  points 
of  view.  You  believe  that  Ronald  committed  the  mur- 
der, and  you  are  allowing  that  belief  to  colour  every- 
thing connected  with  the  case.  I  am  looking  at  this 
murder  as  a  mystery  which  has  not  yet  been  solved,  and, 
without  excluding  the  possibility  that  Ronald  is  the 
murderer,  I  am  not  going  to  allow  the  circumstantial 
evidence  against  him  to  make  me  accept  his  guilt  as  a 
foregone  conclusion  until  I  have  carefully  examined  and 
tested  all  the  facts  for  and  against  that  theory. 

"The  one  outstanding  probability  is  that  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe  was  murdered  for  his  money.  Now,  excluding 
for  the  time  being  the  circumstantial  evidence  against 
Ronald — though  without  losing  sight  of  it — the  next 
point  that  arises  is  was  he  murdered  by  somebody  in  the 
inn  or  by  somebody  from  outside — say,  for  example, 
one  of  the  villagers  employed  on  his  excavation  works. 
The  waiter's  story  of  the  missing  knife  suggests  the 
former  theory,  but  I  do  not  regard  that  evidence  as  in- 
controvertible. The  knife  might  have  been  stolen  from 
the  kitchen  by  a  man  who  had  been  drinking  at  the  bar ; 
indeed,  until  we  have  recovered  the  weapon  it  is  not 
even  established  that  this  was  the  knife  with  which  the 
murder  was  committed.  It  might  have  been  some  other 
knife.  We  must  not  take  the  waiter's  story  for  granted 
until  we  have  recovered  the  knife,  and  not  necessarily 
then.  But  that  story,  as  it  stands,  inclines  to  support 
the  theory  that  the  murder  was  committed  by  somebody 


104  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

in  the  inn.  On  the  other  hand,  the  theory  of  an  out- 
side murderer  lends  itself  to  a  very  plausible  recon- 
struction of  the  crime.  Suppose,  for  example,  the  mur- 
der had  been  committed  by  one  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe'a 
workmen,  actuated  by  the  dual  motives  of  revenge  and 
robbery,  or  by  either  motive.  Apparently  the  whole 
village  knew  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  intention  to  draw  this 
money  which  was  in  his  possession  when  he  was  mur- 
dered— he  seems  to  have  been  a  man  who  talked  very 
freely  of  his  private  affairs — and  the  amount,  £300, 
would  be  a  fortune  to  an  agricultural  labourer  or  a  fisher- 
man. Such  a  man  would  know  all  about  the  bedroom 
windows  on  that  side  of  the  inn  opening  on  to  the  hillside, 
and  would  naturally  choose  that  means  of  entry  to  com- 
mit the  crime.  And,  if  he  were  a  labourer  in  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe's employ,  the  thought  of  concealing  the  body  by 
casting  it  into  the  pit  would  probably  occur  to  him." 

"I  do  not  think  there  is  much  in  that  theory,"  said 
Superintendent  Galloway  thoughtfully.  "Still,  it  is 
worth  putting  to  the  test.  I'll  inquire  in  the  morning 
if  any  of  the  villagers  are  suspicious  characters,  or 
whether  any  of  Glenthorpe's  men  had  a  grudge  against 
him." 

"Now  let  us  leave  theories  and  speculations  and  come 
to  facts.  Our  investigations  of  the  murdered  man's 
room  this  afternoon  gave  us  several  clues,  not  the  least 
important  of  wnich  is  that  we  are  enabled  to  fix  the 
actual  time  of  the  murder  with  some  degree  of  accuracy. 
It  is  always  useful,  in  a  case  of  murder,  to  be  able  to 
establish  the  approximate  time  at  which  it  was  com- 
mitted. In  this  case,  the  murder  was  certainly  com- 
mitted between  the  hours  of  u  p.  m.  and  11.30  p.  m., 
and,  in  all  probability,  not  much  before  half-past  eleven." 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  105 

"How  do  you  fix  it  so  accurately  as  that?"  asked  the 
police  officer,  looking  keenly  at  the  detective. 

"According  to  Ann,  the  gentlemen  went  to  their  rooms 
about  half-past  ten,  and  she  turned  off  the  gas  downstairs 
shortly  afterwards,  and  went  to  bed  herself.  When  we 
examined  the  room  this  afternoon,  we  found  patches  of 
red  mud  of  the  same  colour  and  consistency  of  the  soil 
outside  the  window  leading  from  the  window  to  the  bed- 
side, and  a  pool — a  small  isolated  pool — of  water  near 
the  open  window.  There  were,  as  you  recollect,  no 
footprints  outside  the  window.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
footprints  from  the  inn  to  the  pit  are  clear  and  distinct. 
Rain  commenced  to  fall  last  night  shortly  before  eleven, 
but  it  did  not  fall  heavily  until  eleven  o'clock.  From 
then  till  half-past  eleven  it  was  a  regular  downpour,  when 
it  ceased,  and  it  has  not  rained  since.  Now,  the  patches 
of  red  mud  in  the  bedroom,  and  the  obliteration  of 
footprints  outside  the  window,  prove  that  the  murderer 
entered  the  room  during  the  storm,  but  the  footprints 
leading  to  the  pit  prove  that  the  body  was  not  removed 
from  the  room  until  the  rain  had  completely  ceased, 
otherwise  they  would  have  been  obliterated  also,  or 
partly  obliterated.  These  facts  make  it  clear  that  the 
murder  was  committed  between  eleven  and  half-past,  but 
the  pool  of  water  near  the  window  enables  us  to  fix  the 
time  more  accurately  still,  and  say  that  he  entered  the 
room  during  the  time  the  rain  was  at  its  heaviest — that 
is,  between  ten  minutes  and  half -past  eleven." 

"I'm  hanged  if  I  see  how  you  fix  it  so  definitely,"  said 
the  superintendent,  who  had  been  following  the  other's 
deductions  with  interest.  "The  pool  of  water  may  have 
collected  at  any  time,  once  the  window  was  open." 

"My  dear  Galloway,  you  are  working  on  the  rule- 
of-thumb  deduction  that  the  rain  blew  in  the  open  win- 


106  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

dow  and  formed  the  pool.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  did 
nothing  of  the  kind.  The  wind  was  blowing  the  other 
way,  and  away  from  that  side  of  the  house.  Further- 
more, the  hill  on  that  side  of  the  inn  acts  as  a  natural  bar- 
rier against  rain  and  weather." 

"Then  how  the  deuce  do  you  account  for  the  water  in 
the  room?" 

"Surely  you  have  not  forgotten  the  piece  of  black 
material  we  found  sticking  on  the  nail  outside  the  win- 
dow?" 

"I  have  not  forgotten  it,  but  I  do  not  see  how  you 
connect  it  with  the  pool  of  water." 

"Because  it  is  a  piece  of  umbrella  silk.  The  murderer 
was  carrying  an  umbrella — and  an  open  umbrella — have 
you  the  piece  of  silk?  If  so,  let  us  look  at  it." 

The  superintendent  produced  the  square  inch  of  silk 
from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  examined  it  closely:  "Of 
course  it's  umbrella  silk,"  he  exclaimed,  slapping  his 
leg.  "Funny  I  didn't  recognise  it  at  the  time." 

"Perhaps  I  wouldn't  have  recognised  it  myself,  but 
for  the  fact  that  a  piece  of  umbrella  silk  formed  an 
important  clue  in  a  recent  case  I  was  engaged  upon," 
replied  the  detective.  "Experience  counts  for  a  lot — 
sometimes.  See,  this  piece  of  silk  is  hemmed  on  the  edge 
— pretty  conclusive  proof  that  the  murderer  was  carrying 
the  umbrella  open,  to  shield  him  from  the  rain,  and  that 
it  caught  on  the  nail  outside  the  window,  tearing  off  the 
edge.  He  closed  it  as  he  got  inside  the  window,  and 
placed  it  near  the  window-sill,  and  the  rain  dripped  off 
it  and  formed  the  pool  of  water.  The  size  of  the  pool, 
and  the  fact  that  the  murderer  carried  an  open  um- 
brella to  shield  him,  prove  pretty  conclusively  that  he 
made  his  entrance  into  the  room  during  the  time  the  rain 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  107 

was  falling  heaviest — which  was  between  11.10  p.  m.  and 

11.30- 

"We  now  come  to  what  is  the  most  important  dis- 
covery of  all — the  pieces  of  candle-grease  we  found  in 
the  murdered  man's  bedroom.  They  help  to  establish 
two  curious  facts,  the  least  important  of  which  is  that 
somebody  tried  to  light  the  gas  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room 
last  night,  and,  failing  to  do  so,  went  downstairs  and 
turned  on  the  gas  at  the  meter." 

"What  if  they  did?"  grunted  Superintendent  Gallo- 
way, pouring  out  another  glass  of  brandy.  He  was 
secretly  annoyed  at  having  overlooked  the  clue  of  the 
umbrella  silk,  and  was  human  enough  to  be  angry  with 
the  detective  for  opening  his  eyes  to  the  fact.  "I  don't 
see  how  you're  going  to  prove  it,  and,  even  if  you  did, 
it  doesn't  matter  a  dump  one  way  or  the  other." 

"We'll  let  that  point  go,"  rejoined  Colwyn  curtly. 
"Your  attitude  in  shutting  your  eyes  to  facts  hardly 
encourages  me  to  proceed,  but  I'll  try.  Would  you 
mind  showing  me  those  bits  of  candle-grease  you  picked 
up  in  the  bedroom?" 

Superintendent  Galloway  produced  a  metal  matchbox 
from  his  pocket,  emptied  some  pieces  of  candle-grease, 
a  burnt  wooden  match  and  a  broken  matchhead  from 
it,  and  sat  back  eyeing  the  detective  with  a  supercilious 
smile.  Colwyn,  after  examining  them  closely,  brought 
from  his  own  pocket  an  envelope,  and  shook  several 
more  pieces  of  candle-grease  on  the  table. 

"Look  at  these  pieces  of  candle-grease  side  by  side,"  he 
said.  "Yours  were  picked  up  alongside  the  bed;  I  found 
mine  underneath  the  gas  burner." 

Superintendent  Galloway  glanced  at  the  pieces  of 
candle-grease  with  the  same  supercilious  smile.  "I  see 


io8  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

them,"  he  said.  "They  are  pieces  of  candle-grease. 
What  of  them?" 

"Do  you  not  see  that  they  are  different  kinds  of  candle- 
grease?  The  pieces  you  picked  up  alongside  the  bed 
are  tallow;  mine,  picked  up  from  underneath  the  gas- 
globe,  are  wax." 

The  Superintendent  had  not  noticed  the  difference  in 
the  candle-grease,  but  he  thought  it  beneath  his  dignity 
to  examine  them  again.  "The  murderer  may  have  had 
two  candles,"  he  said  oracularly.  "Anyway,  what  does 
it  matter?  They're  both  candle-grease." 

Colwyn  swept  his  fragments  back  into  his  pocket  with 
a  quick  impatient  gesture.  "Both  candle-grease,  as  you 
say,"  he  returned  sharply.  "We  do  not  seem  to  be  mak- 
ing much  progress  in  our  investigations,  so  kt  us  dis- 
continue them.  Good-night." 


CHAPTER  X 

COLWYN  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  Hour  after 
hour  he  lay  awake,  staring  into  the  darkness,  endeavour- 
ing to  put  together  the  facts  he  had  discovered  during 
the  afternoon's  investigations  at  the  inn.  But  they  re- 
sembled those  irritating  odd-shaped  pieces  of  a  puzzle 
which  refuse  to  fit  into  the  remainder  no  matter  which 
way  they  are  turned.  Try  as  he  would,  he  could  not  fit 
his  clues  into  harmony  with  the  police  theory  of  the 
murder. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  could  not,  nor  did  he  attempt, 
to  shut  his  eyes  to  the  strong  case  against  Ronald,  for  he 
fully  realised  that  there  was  much  to  be  explained  in  the 
young  man's  actions  before  any  alternative  theory  to  that 
held  by  the  police  could  be  sustained.  But  so  far  he 
did  not  see  his  way  to  an  alternative  theory.  He  sought 
vainly  for  a  foundation  on  which  to  build  his  clues  and 
discoveries ;  for  some  overlooked  trifle  which  would  help 
him  to  read  aright  the  true  order  and  significance  of  the 
jumbled  assortment  of  events  in  this  strange  case. 

In  the  first  place,  was  Ronald's  explanation,  about 
losing  his  way  and  wandering  to  the  inn  by  chance,  the 
true  one?  The  police  accepted  it  without  question,  but 
was  it  likely  that  a  man  who  was  in  the  habit  of  taking 
long  walks  about  the  coast  would  lose  his  way  easily  ?  As 
against  that  doubt,  there  were  the  statements  of  the  inn- 
keeper and  the  deaf  waiter  that  they  had  never  seen 
Ronald  before.  If  Ronald  were  not  guilty,  why  had  he 
departed  so  hurriedly  from  the  inn  that  morning?  And 

109 


no  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

if  he  were  not  the  murderer  what  was  the  explanation  of 
the  damning  evidence  of  the  footprints  leading  to  the 
pit  in  which  the  body  of  the  murdered  man  had  be-en 
flung?  If  the  discovery  of  the  two  kinds  of  candle- 
grease  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  bedroom  indicated  that  two 
persons  were  in  the  room  on  the  night  of  the  murder, 
who  were  those  two  persons,  and  what  did  they  both 
go  there  for? 

He  reflected  that  his  only  tangible  reason,  so  far,  for 
not  accepting  the  police  theory  was  based  on  the  belief 
that  two  people  had  been  in  the  murdered  man's  room, 
and  that  belief  rested  on  the  discovery  of  a  spot  of 
candle-grease  which  in  itself  was  merely  presumptive, 
but  not  conclusive  evidence.  It  was  necessary  to  estab- 
lish beyond  doubt  the  supposition  that  two  people  had 
been  in  the  room  before  he  could  presume  to  draw  in- 
ferences from  it.  And,  if  he  succeeded  in  establishing 
that  supposition,  might  not  Ronald  have  been  one  of  the 
two  persons,  and  the  actual  murderer?  What  was  the 
significance  of  the  broken  incandescent  burner,  the 
turned-on  gas,  and  the  faint  mark  under  the  window? 

These  questions  revolved  in  Colwyn's  head  in  a  circle, 
always  bringing  him  back  to  his  starting  point  that  the 
solution  of  the  case  did  not  lie  on  the  surface,  and  that 
the  police  theory  could  not  be  made  to  fit  in  with  his 
own  discoveries.  The  latter  were  in  themselves  internal 
evidence  that  the  whole  truth  had  not  yet  been  brought 
to  light. 

Gradually  the  line  of  the  circle  grew  nebulous,  and 
Colwyn  was  fast  falling  asleep  through  sheer  weariness, 
when  a  slight  sharp  sound,  like  that  made  by  turning  a 
key  in  a  lock,  brought  him  back  to  wide-eyed  wakeful- 
ness.  He  sat  up  in  bed,  listening  with  strained  ears, 
feeling  for  the  box  of  matches  at  his  bedside.  He  found 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  in 

them,  and  endeavoured  to  strike  a  light.  But  the  matches 
were  war  matches,  and  one  after  another  broke  off  in 
his  hand  against  the  side  of  the  box.  He  tried  holding 
the  next  close  to  the  head,  but  the  head  flew  off.  With 
a  muttered  malediction  on  British  manufacturers,  Col- 
wyn  struck  several  more  in  rapid  succession  before  he 
succeeded  in  lighting  the  candle  at  his  bedside.  He  got 
quietly  out  of  bed,  and,  leaving  the  candle  on  the  table, 
opened  his  door  noiselessly  and  looked  out  into  the  pas- 
sage. 

He  had  been  put  to  sleep  in  a  small  bedroom  in  the 
deserted  upstairs  wing  where  the  murder  had  been  com- 
mitted. His  room  was  opposite  the  lumber  room,  which 
was  four  doors  away  from  the  room  in  which  the  body 
of  the  dead  man  lay.  When  the  question  of  accommo- 
dation for  Superintendent  Galloway  and  himself  had 
been  discussed,  the  former  had  chosen  to  have  a  bed 
made  up  in  the  bar  parlour  downstairs  as  more  com- 
fortable and  snug  than  any  of  the  bedrooms  upstairs,  but 
Colwyn  had  consented  to  sleep  in  the  deserted  wing. 
The  innkeeper,  who  had  lighted  him  upstairs,  had  apolo- 
gised for  the  humble  room  and  scanty  furniture,  but 
Colwyn  had  laughingly  accepted  the  shortcomings  of  the 
room  as  a  point  of  no  importance,  and  had  stood  at  his 
door  for  some  moments  watching  a  queer  effect  in 
shadows  caused  by  the  innkeeper's  candle  throwing 
gigantic  wavering  outlines  of  his  gaunt  retreating  figure 
on  the  bare  stone  wall  as  he  went  down  the  side  passage 
to  his  own  bedroom. 

Colwyn,  looking  out  into  the  passage,  could  hear  or  see 
nothing  to  account  for  the  sound  that  had  startled  him 
into  wakefulness.  The  candle  by  his  bedside  gave  a 
feeble  glimmer  which  did  not  reach  to  the  door,  and 
the  passage  was  as  dark  and  silent  as  the  interior  of  a 


112  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

vault.  The  stillness  and  blackness  seemed  to  float  into 
the  bedroom  like  a  cloud.  But  he  was  certain  he  had  not 
been  mistaken.  A  door  had  been  unlocked  somewhere 
in  the  darkness,  and  it  had  been  unlocked  by  human 
hands.  Who  had  come  to  that  deserted  wing  of  the 
inn  in  the  small  hours,  and  on  what  business?  He 
decided  to  explore  the  passage  and  find  out. 

He  left  the  door  of  his  room  partly  open  while  he 
donned  a  few  articles  of  clothing,  and  pulled  a  pair  of 
slippers  on  his  feet.  He  glanced  at  his  watch,  and  noted 
with  surprise  that  it  wanted  but  a  few  minutes  to  three 
o'clock.  He  extinguished  his  candle  and,  taking  his 
electric  torch,  crept  silently  into  the  passage. 

He  recalled  the  arrangements  of  the  rooms  as  he  had 
observed  them  the  previous  afternoon.  There  were  three 
more  bedrooms  adjoining  his,  all  empty.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  passage  was  the  lumber  room  opposite,  next 
came  the  room  in  which  Ronald  slept,  then  the  dead 
man's  room,  and  finally  the  sitting-room  he  had  occu- 
pied. The  door  of  the  sitting-room  opened  not  very 
far  from  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

Colwyn  first  examined  the  bedrooms  on  his  side  of  the 
passage,  stepping  as  noiselessly  as  a  cat,  opening  and 
shutting  each  door  without  a  sound,  and  scrutinising  the 
interiors  by  the  light  of  his  torch.  They  were  empty 
and  deserted,  as  he  had  seen  them  the  previous  after- 
noon. On  reaching  the  end  of  the  passage  he  glanced 
over  the  head  of  the  staircase,  but  there  was  no  light 
glimmering  in  the  square  well  of  darkness  and  no  sound 
in  the  lower  part  of  the  house  to  suggest  that  anybody 
was  stirring  downstairs.  He  turned  away,  and  made  his 
way  back  along  the  passage,  trying  the  doors  on  the  other 
side  with  equal  precaution  as  he  went.  The  first  three 
doors — the  sitting-room,  the  murdered  man's  bedroom, 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  113 

and  Ronald's  bedroom — were  locked,  as  he  had  seen 
them  locked  the  previous  afternoon  by  Superintendent 
Galloway,  who  had  carried  the  keys  away  with  him  un- 
til after  the  inquest  on  the  body. 

The  lumber  room  at  the  other  end  of  the  passage  had 
not  been  locked,  and  the  door  stood  ajar.  Colwyn  en- 
tered it,  and  by  the  glancing  light  of  the  torch  looked 
over  the  heavy  furniture,  mouldering  linen,  and  stiffly 
upended  bedpoles  and  curtain  rods  which  nearly  filled 
the  room.  The  clock  of  a  bygone  generation  stood  on 
the  mantel-piece,  and  the  black  winding  hole  in  its  white 
face  seemed  to  leer  at  him  like  an  evil  eye  as  the  light  of 
the  torch  fell  on  it.  But  nobody  had  been  in  the  room. 
The  dust  which  encrusted  the  furniture  and  the  floor  had 
not  been  disturbed  for  months. 

Colwyn  returned,  puzzled,  to  his  own  room.  Could  he 
have  been  mistaken  ?  Was  it  possible  that  the  sound  he  had 
heard  had  been  caused  by  the  door  of  the  lumber  room 
swinging  to  ?  No !  the  sound  had  been  too  clear  and  dis- 
tinct to  admit  the  possibility  of  mistake,  and  it  had  been 
made  by  the  grating  of  a  key  in  a  lock,  not  by  a  swing- 
ing door.  He  stood  in  the  darkness  by  his  open  door,  list- 
ening intently.  Several  minutes  passed  in  profound 
silence,  and  then  there  came  a  scraping,  spluttering  sound. 
Somebody  not  far  away  had  struck  a  match.  Looking 
cautiously  out  into  the  passage,  he  saw,  to  his  utter  amaze- 
ment, a  gleam  of  light  appear  beneath  the  door  in  which 
the  dead  man  lay.  The  next  moment  the  gleam  moved 
up  the  line  of  the  door  sideways,  cutting  into  the  dark- 
ness outside  like  a  knife.  The  gleam  became  broader 
until  the  whole  door  was  revealed.  Somebody  inside 
was  opening  it.  Even  as  he  looked  a  hand  stole  forth 
from  the  aperture  through  which  the  light  streamed,  and 
rested  on  the  jamb  outside. 


Ii4  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

Colwyn  was  a  man  of  strong  nerves,  but  that  sudden 
manifestation  of  light  and  a  human  hand  from  a  sealed 
death  chamber  momentarily  unbalanced  his  common 
sense,  and  caused  it  to  swing  like  a  pendulum  towards 
the  supernatural.  He  would  not  have  been  surprised  if 
the  light  and  the  hand  had  been  followed  by  the  apparition 
of  the  murdered  man  on  the  threshold,  demanding  venge- 
ance on  his  murderer.  The  feeling  passed  immediately, 
and  with  the  return  of  reason  the  detective  stepped  back 
into  his  room,  closed  his  door  quietly,  and  watched 
through  a  knife's  edge  slit  for  the  visitor  to  the  death 
chamber  to  appear. 

The  door  of  the  dead  man's  room  opened  gently,  and 
the  face  of  the  innkeeper's  daughter  peered  forth  into  the 
darkness,  her  impassive  face,  behind  which  everything 
was  hid,  showing  like  a  beautiful  waxen  mask  against  the 
light  of  the  candle  she  held  in  her  hand.  Her  clear  gaze 
rested  on  Colwyn's  door,  and  it  seemed  to  him  for  a 
moment  as  though  their  glances  met  through  the  slit,  then 
her  eyes  swept  along  the  passage  from  one  end  to  the 
other.  As  if  satisfied  by  the  scrutiny  that  she  had  noth- 
ing to  fear,  she  stepped  forth  from  the  death  chamber, 
closed  and  locked  the  door  behind  her,  withdrew  the  key, 
walked  swiftly  along  the  passage  to  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
and  descended  them. 

Colwyn  opened  his  door  and  followed  her.  He  paused 
outside  to  pick  up  the  boots  which  he  had  placed  there  to 
be  cleaned,  and  carrying  them  in  his  hand,  ran  quickly  to 
the  head  of  the  stairs.  Looking  over  the  landing,  he  saw 
the  girl  reach  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  and  turn  down  the 
passage  towards  the  back  door,  still  carrying  the  lighted 
candle  in  her  hand. 

When  Colwyn  reached  the  bottom,  the  girl  and  the  light 
had  disappeared.  But  a  swift  gust  of  wind  in  the  passage 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  115 

revealed  to  him  that  she  had  gone  out  by  the  back  door, 
and  closed  it  after  her.  He  followed  along  the  passage 
till  he  felt  the  latch  of  the  back  door  in  his  hand.  The 
door  yielded  to  the  lifting  of  the  latch,  and  he  found  him- 
self in  the  open  air. 

It  was  a  grey  northern  night,  with  a  bitter  wind  driving 
the  sea  mist  in  billows  over  the  marshes,  and  a  waning 
half  moon  shining1  fitfully  through  the  dingy  clouds  which 
scudded  across  a  lead-coloured  sky.  By  the  light  of  the 
moon  he  saw  the  figure  of  the  girl,  already  some  distance 
from  the  house,  swiftly  making  her  way  along  the  reedy 
canal  path  which  threaded  the  oozing  marshes. 

Colwyn  was  not  a  stranger  to  marshlands.  He  had 
waded  kneedeep  from  dawn  to  dusk  through  Irish  bogs 
after  wild  geese ;  he  had  followed  the  migratory  seafowl 
of  Finland,  Russia  and  Serbia  into  their  Scottish  breed- 
ing haunts,  and  he  had  once  tried  to  keep  pace  with  the 
sweep  of  the  Bore  over  the  Solway  Marshes,  but  he  had 
never  undertaken  a  task  so  difficult  as  following  this  girl 
across  a  Norfolk  marshland.  The  path  she  trod  so  un- 
hesitatingly was  narrow,  and  slippery,  with  the  canal  on 
one  side  and  the  marshes  on  the  other.  In  keeping  clear 
of  the  canal  Colwyn  frequently  found  himself  slipping 
into  the  marshes.  His  feet  and  legs  speedily  became  wet 
and  caked  with  ooze,  and  once  he  nearly  lost  one  of  his 
boots,  which  he  had  pulled  on  hurriedly  outside  the  inn, 
and  left  unlaced. 

But  the  girl  walked  straight  on  with  a  swift  and  even 
gait,  treading  the  narrow  path  across  the  morass  as  se- 
curely as  though  she  had  been  on  the  high  road.  Col- 
wyn soon  realised  that  the  path  they  were  following  was 
taking  them  straight  across  the  marshes  to  the  sea.  The 
surging  of  the  waves  against  the  breakwater  sounded 
increasingly  loud  on  his  ears,  and  after  a  while  he  saw 


ii6  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

the  breakwater  itself  rise  momentarily  out  of  the  dark- 
ness like  a  yellow  wall,  only  to  disappear  again.  But 
presently  it  was  visible  once  more,  looming  out  in  increas- 
ing clearness,  with  a  ghostly  glimmering  of  the  grey 
waters  of  the  North  Sea  heaving  turbulently  outside. 

As  they  neared  the  breakwater  the  path  became  drier 
and  firmer,  and  the  light  of  the  moon;  falling  through  a 
ragged  rift  in  the  scurrying  clouds,  showed  a  line  of 
sand  banks  and  strips  of  tussockland  emerging  from  the 
marshes  as  the  marshes  approached  the  sea. 

The  girl  kept  on  with  the  same  resolute  pace,  until 
she  reached  a  spot  where  the  canal  found  its  outlet  to 
the  sea.  There  she  turned  aside  and  skirted  the  break- 
water wall  for  a  little  distance,  as  if  searching  for  some- 
thing. The  next  moment  she  was  scaling  the  breakwater 
wall.  Colwyn  was  too  far  away  to  intercept  her,  or  reach 
her  if  she  slipped.  He  stopped  and  watched  her  climb 
to  the  top  of  the  wall,  and  stand  there,  like  a  creature  of 
the  sea,  with  the  spray  leaping  hungrily  at  her  slight 
figure.  He  saw  her  take  something  from  the  bosom  of 
her  dress  and  cast  it  into  the  wild  waste  of  seething 
waters  in  front  of  her.  Having  done  this  she  turned  to 
descend  the  breakwater.  Colwyn  had  barely  time  to 
leave  the  path,  and  take  refuge  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall, 
before  she  reached  the  path  again  and  set  out  to  retrace 
her  steps  across  the  lonely  marshes. 


CHAPTER  XI 

COLWYN  waited  on  the  marshes  until  the  coming  of 
the  dawn  revealed  the  breakwater  and  the  sea  crashing 
against  it.  A  brief  scrutiny  of  the  white  waste  of  waters, 
raging  endlessly  against  the  barrier,  convinced  him  of 
the  futility  of  attempting  to  discover  what  the  innkeep- 
er's daughter  had  thrown  from  the  breakwater  wall  an 
hour  before.  The  sea  would  retain  her  secret. 

The  sea  mist  hung  heavily  over  the  marshes  as  Col- 
wyn  cautiously  picked  his  way  back  along  the  slippery 
canal  path.  Sooner  than  he  expected,  the  inn  appeared 
from  the  grey  mist  like  a  sheeted  ghost.  Colwyn  stood 
for  a  few  moments  regarding  the  place  attentively. 
There  was  something  weird  and  sinister  about  this  lonely 
inn  on  the  edge  of  the  marshes.  Strange  things  must 
have  happened  there  in  the  past,  but  the  lawless  secrets 
of  a  bygone  generation  of  smugglers  had  been  safely  kept 
by  the  old  inn.  The  cold  morning  light  imparted 
the  semblance  of  a  leer  to  the  circular  windows  high 
up  in  the  white  wall,  as  though  they  defied  the  world 
to  discover  the  secret  of  the  death  of  Roger  Glen- 
thorpe. 

There  was  no  sign  of  life  about  the  inn  as  Colwyn 
approached  it.  The  back  door  yielded  to  his  pull  on  the 
latch,  and  he  gained  his  room  unobserved;  apparently 
all  the  inmates  were  still  wrapped  in  slumber.  Col- 
wyn spent  half  an  hour  or  so  in  making  some  sort  of 
a  toilet.  He  had  brought  his  suit-case  with  him  in  the 
car,  so  he  changed  his  wet  clothes,  shaved  himself  in 

117 


ii8  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

cold  water,  washed,  and  brushed  his  hair.  He  looked 
at  his  watch,  and  found  that  it  was  after  six  o'clock. 
He  wondered  if  the  girl  Peggy  was  sleeping  after  her 
night's  adventure. 

A  swishing  noise,  somewhere  in  the  lower  regions, 
broke  the  profound  stillness  of  the  house.  Somebody 
was  washing  the  floor,  somewhere.  Colwyn  opened  his 
door  and  went  downstairs.  Ann,  the  stout  servant,  was 
washing  the  passage.  She  was  on  her  hands  and  knees, 
with  her  back  towards  the  staircase,  swabbing  vigor- 
ously, and  did  not  see  the  detective  descending  the 
stairs. 

"Good  morning,  Ann,"  said  Colwyn,  pleasantly. 

She  turned  her  head  quickly,  with  a  start,  and  Col- 
wyn could  have  sworn  that  the  quick  glance  she  gave 
him  was  one  of  fear.  But  she  merely  said,  "Good 
morning,  sir,"  and  went  on  with  her  work,  while  the 
detective  stood  looking  at  her.  She  finished  the  pas- 
sage in  a  few  minutes  and  got  awkwardly  to  her  feet, 
wiping  her  red  hands  on  her  coarse  apron. 

"You  and  I  are  the  only  early  risers  in  the  house, 
it  seems,  Ann,"  said  Colwyn,  still  regarding  her  atten- 
tively. 

"If  you  please,  sir,  Charles  is  up,  and  gone  out  to  the 
canal  to  see  if  there  are  any  fish  on  the  master's  night 
lines." 

"Fresh  fish  for  breakfast!  Well,  that's  a  very  good 
thing,"  replied  the  detective,  reflecting  it  was  just  as 
well  that  he  had  got  in  before  Charles  went  out.  "What 
time  does  Mr.  Benson  come  down?" 

"About  half -past  seven,  sir,  as  a  general  rule,  but 
sometimes  he  has  his  breakfast  in  bed." 

"That's  not  a  bad  idea  at  times,  Ann.  But  I  see  you 
are  impatient  to  get  on  with  your  work.  Would  you 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  119 

mind  if  I  went  into  the  kitchen  and  talked  to  you 
while  you  are  preparing  breakfast?" 

Again  there  was  a  gleam  of  fear  in  the  woman's 
eyes  as  she  looked  quickly  at  the  detective,  but  her  voice 
was  self-possessed  as  she  replied: 

"Very  well,  sir,"  and  turned  down  the  passage  which 
led  to  the  kitchen. 

"What  time  was  it  when  you  turned  off  the  gas  the 
night  before  last?"  asked  Colwyn,  when  the  kitchen  was 
reached.  "You  told  us  yesterday  that  it  was  about  half- 
past  ten,  but  you  did  not  seem  very  sure  of  the  exact 
time.  Can  you  not  fix  it  accurately?  Try  and  think." 

The  look  the  woman  gave  Colwyn  this  time  was  un- 
doubtedly one  of  relief. 

"Well,  sir,"  she  said,  "I  usually  turn  off  the  gas  at 
ten  o'clock,  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  a  little  bit 
late  that  night." 

"A  little  bit  late,  eh?  That  means  you  forgot  all 
about  it." 

"I  did  forget  about  it,  and  that's  the  truth.  The 
master  told  me  not  to  turn  off  the  meter  until  the  gentle- 
men in  the  parlour  upstairs  had  gone  to  bed.  Charles 
told  me  when  he  came  down  from  the  upstairs  par- 
lour with  the  last  of  the  dinner  things  that  the  gentle- 
men were  still  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire  talking,  but 
some  time  after  Charles  had  come  down  and  gone  to 
bed  I  heard  them  moving  about  upstairs,  as  though  they 
were  going  to  their  rooms." 

"What  time  was  that?"  asked  the  detective. 

"Just  hali-past  ten.  I  happened  to  glance  at  the 
kitchen  clock  at  the  time.  Charles,  who  had  been  told 
that  he  wouldn't  be  wanted  upstairs  again,  had  gone 
to  bed  quite  half  an  hour  before,  but  I  didn't  go  until 
I  had  folded  some  clothes  which  I  had  airing  in  front 


120  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

of  the  kitchen  fire.  When  I  did  get  to  bed,  and  was 
just  falling  off  to  sleep,  I  suddenly  remembered  that 
I  had  forgotten  to  turn  off  the  gas  at  the  meter.  I  got 
out  of  bed  again,  lit  my  candle,  and  went  up  the  passage 
to  the  meter,  which  is  just  under  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
turned  off  the  gas,  and  went  back  to  bed." 

"Did  you  notice  the  time  then?" 

"The  kitchen  clock  was  just  chiming  eleven  as  I  got 
back  to  my  bed." 

"You  are  sure  it  was  not  twelve?" 

"Quite  sure,  sir." 

"Did  you  hear  any  sound  upstairs?" 

"No,  sir.    It  was  as  quiet  as  the  dead." 

"Was  it  raining  at  that  time?" 

"It  started  to  rain  heavens  hard  just  as  I  got  back 
to  bed,  but  before  that  the  wind  was  moaning  round 
the  house,  as  it  do  moan  in  these  parts,  and  I  knew 
we  was  in  for  a  storm.  I  was  glad  enough  to  get  back 
to  my  warm  bed." 

"You  might  have  seen  something,  if  you  had  been  a 
little  later.  The  staircase  is  the  only  way  the  body 
could  have  been  brought  down  from  there."  The  de- 
tective pointed  to  the  room  above  where  the  dead  man 
lay. 

The  woman  trembled  violently. 

"It's  God's  mercy  I  didn't  see  something,"  she  said, 
and  her  voice  fell  to  a  husky  whisper.  "I  should  'a* 
died  wi'  fright  if  I  had  seen  it  being  brought  down- 
stairs. All  day  long  I've  been  thanking  God  I  didn't 
see  anything." 

"Do  nobody  else  but  you  and  Charles  sleep  down- 
stairs ?" 

"Nobody,  sir.  I  sleep  in  a  small  room  off  the  kitchen, 
but  Charles  sleeps  in  one  of  the  rooms  in  the  passage 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  121 

which  leads  off  the  kitchen,  the  first  room,  not  far  from 
my  own.  But  that'd  been  no  help  to  me  if  I'd  seen 
anything.  I  might  have  screamed  the  house  down  be- 
fore Charles  would  have  heard  me,  he  being  stone  deaf." 

"Quite  true,  Ann.  And  now  is  that  all  you  have  to 
tell  me  about  the  gas?" 

The  woman  seemed  to  have  some  difficulty  in  reply- 
ing, but  finally  she  stammered  out  in  an  embarrassed 
voice,  plucking  at  her  apron  the  while: 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Look  at  me,  Ann,  and  tell  me  the  truth.  Come  now, 
it  will  be  better  for  everybody." 

The  countrywoman  looked  at  the  detective  with  whit- 
ening face,  and  there  was  something  in  his  penetrating 
gaze  that  kept  her  frightened  eyes  fixed  on  his. 

"Please,  sir " 

"Yes,  Ann,  go  on,"  prompted  the  detective  encourag- 
ingly. 

But  the  woman  didn't  go  on ;  there  crept  into  her  face 
instead  an  obstinate  look,  her  mouth  closed  tightly,  and 
her  hands  ceased  twitching. 

"I've  told  you  everything,  sir,"  she  said  quietly. 

"You've  not  told  me  you  found  the  meter  turned  on 
when  you  got  up  yesterday  morning,"  replied  the  de- 
tective sternly. 

The  woman's  fat  face  turned  haggard  with  anxiety, 
and  then  she  began  to  cry  softly  with  her  apron  to  her 
eyes. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  us  this,  Ann?" 

"If  you  please,  sir,  I  thought  that  the  master  mightn't 
like  it  if  he  knew.  He's  very  particular  about  having 
the  gas  turned  off  at  night,  and  he  might  have  thought 
I  had  forgotten  it." 

Colvvyn  gave  her  another  searching  look. 


122  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"Even  if  that  were  true,  Ann,  you  have  no  right  to 
keep  back  anything  that  may  tend  to  shield  the  guilty, 
or  injure  the  innocent." 

"I  didn't  think  it  mattered,  sir." 

"You  still  say  that  you  heard  nothing  after  you  went 
to  bed?" 

"No,  sir.    I  fell  asleep  as  soon  as  I  got  into  bed." 

"So  you  said  before,  but  you  did  not  tell  us  the  whole 
truth  yesterday,  you  know,  and  I  do  not  know  whether 
to  believe  you  now." 

"Hush,  sir,  there's  somebody  coming  down  the  pas- 
sage." 

Colwyn  strolled  into  the  passage  and  encountered 
Superintendent  Galloway  coming  towards  the  kitchen. 
He  stared  at  the  detective  and  exclaimed: 

"Hello,  you're  up  early." 

"Yes;  I  found  it  difficult  to  sleep,  so  I  came  down- 
stairs." 

"I  hope  you've  not  been  making  love  to  Ann,"  said 
Galloway,  who  had  his  own  sense  of  humour.  "I'm 
looking  for  this  infernal  waiter,  Charles.  He  is  never 
about  when  he's  wanted.  Charles!  Charles!" 

Superintendent  Galloway's  shouts  brought  Ann  hur- 
rying from  the  kitchen,  and  she  explained  to  him,  as 
she  had  explained  to  Colwyn,  that  Charles  had  gone 
on  to  the  marshes  to  look  for  fish. 

"Send  him  to  my  room  as  soon  as  he  comes  in;  I've 
other  fish  for  him  to  fry,"  grumbled  the  superintendent. 
"A  queer  household  this,"  he  said  to  Colwyn,  as  they 
walked  along  the  passage.  "Ah,  here  is  Charles,  fish 
and  all." 

The  fat  waiter  was  hurrying  in  with  a  string  of  fish 
in  his  hand,  and  he  came  towards  them  in  response  to 
Superintendent  Galloway's  commanding  gesture.  The 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  123 

superintendent  told  him  to  go  out  and  intercept  Constable 
Queensmead  before  he  went  out  with  his  search  party, 
and  bring  him  to  the  inn.  Charles  nodded  an  indication 
that  he  understood  the  instruction,  and  turned  away  to 
execute  it. 

"I  want  Queensmead  to  get  a  dozen  of  the  village 
blockheads  together  for  a  jury,"  he  said  to  Colwyn. 
"The  coroner  sent  me  word  before  we  left  Durrington 
yesterday  that  he'd  be  over  this  morning,  but  he  did  not 
say  what  time,  and  I  forgot  to  ask  him.  He's  the  man 
to  kick  up  a  devil  of  a  shindy  if  he  came  and  found  we 
were  not  ready  for  him." 

Queensmead  speedily  appeared  in  response  to  the 
summons,  listened  quietly  to  Superintendent  Galloway's 
laconic  command  to  catch  a  jury  and  catch  them  quick, 
and  went  back  to  the  village  to  secure  twelve  good 
men  and  true. 

Colwyn  and  Galloway  meanwhile  breakfasted  to- 
gether in  the  bar  parlour,  on  some  of  the  fish  which 
Charles  had  brought  in.  As  nothing  followed  the  fish 
Superintendent  Galloway,  who  was  an  excellent  trench- 
erman, rang  the  bell  and  ordered  the  waiter  to  bring 
some  eggs  and  bacon.  The  waiter  hesitated  a  moment, 
and  then  said  that  he  believed  they  were  out  of  bacon. 
There  were  some  eggs,  if  they  would  do. 

"Bring  me  a  couple,  boiled,  as  quick  as  you  like," 
said  the  superintendent.  "This  is  a  queer  kind  of  inn," 
he  grumbled  to  Colwyn.  "They  don't  give  you  enough 
to  eat." 

"I  think  they're  a  little  short  themselves,"  replied 
Colwyn. 

"By  Jove,  I  believe  you're  right!"  said  the  superin- 
tendent, staring  hard  at  the  edibles  on  the  table  before 
him.  "There's  not  much  here — a  piece  of  butter  no 


124  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

bigger  than  a  walnut,  a  spoonful  of  jam,  and  tea  as 
weak  as  water.  Come  to  think  of  it,  they  gave  us 
nothing  but  some  of  Glenthorpe's  left  over  game  for 
dinner  last  night.  You're  right,  they  are  hard  up" 

Superintendent  Galloway  looked  at  Colwyn  with  as 
much  animation  on  his  heavy  features  as  though  he 
had  lighted  on  some  new  and  important  discovery. 
Colwyn,  who  had  finished  his  breakfast  and  was  not 
particularly  interested  in  the  conversation,  strolled  out 
with  the  intention  of  smoking  a  cigar  outside  the  front 
door.  In  the  passage  he  encountered  Ann,  bearing  a 
tray  with  two  cups  and  saucers,  a  pot  of  tea  and  some 
bread  and  butter  which  she  proceeded  to  carry  up- 
stairs. Colwyn  wondered  for  whom  the  breakfast  was 
intended.  There  were  three  people  upstairs — the  father, 
his  daughter,  and  the  poor  mad  woman,  and  the  break- 
fast was  laid  for  two.  The  appearance  of  the  inn- 
keeper descending  the  stairs,  answered  the  question. 
Colwyn  accosted  him  as  he  came  down. 

"You're  a  late  riser,  Benson." 

"Yes,  sir,  it's  a  bit  difficult  to  handle  Mother  in  the 
morning:  the  only  way  to  keep  her  quiet  is  for  me  to 
stay  with  her  until  Peggy  is  ready  to  go  to  her  and 
give  her  her  breakfast.  Mother  is  quiet  enough  with 
Peggy  and  me,  but  nobody  else  can  do  anything  with 
her,  and  sometimes  nobody  can  do  anything  with  her 
except  my  daughter.  She  spends  a  lot  of  time  with  her, 
sir." 

The  innkeeper  looked  more  like  a  bird  than  ever  as 
he  proffered  this  explanation,  standing  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  dressed  as  he  had  been  the  previous  night, 
with  his  bright  bird's  eyes  peering  from  beneath  his 
shock  of  iron-grey  hair  at  the  man  in  front  of  him. 
Colwyn  noticed  that  his  hair  had  been  recently  wet, 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  125 

and  plastered  straight  down  so  that  it  hung  like  a  ridge 
over  his  forehead — just  as  it  had  been  the  previous 
night.  Colwyn  wondered  why  the  man  wore  his  hair 
like  that.  Did  he  always  affect  that  eccentric  style  of 
hairdressing,  or  had  he  adopted  it  to  alter  his  personal 
appearance — to  disguise  himself,  or  to  conceal  some- 
thing ? 

"It's  no  life  for  a  young  girl,"  said  the  detective,  in 
answer  to  the  innkeeper's  last  remark. 

"I  know  that,  sir.  But  what  am  I  to  do?  I  cannot 
afford  to  keep  a  nurse.  Peggy  never  complains.  She's 
used  to  it.  But  if  you'll  excuse  me,  sir.  I  must  go  and 
get  the  room  ready  for  the  inquest" 

"What  room  is  it  going  to  be  held  in?" 

"Superintendent  Galloway  told  me  to  put  a  table  and 
some  chairs  into  the  last  empty  room  off  the  passage 
leading  into  the  kitchen.  It's  the  biggest  room  in  the 
house,  and  there  are  plenty  of  chairs  in  the  lumber 
room  upstairs." 

"It  should  do  excellently  for  the  purpose,  I  should 
think,"  said  Colwyn. 

A  few  moments  later  he  saw  the  innkeeper  and  the 
waiter  carrying  chairs  from  the  lumber  room  downstairs 
into  the  empty  room,  where  Ann  dusted  them.  Then 
they  carried  in  a  small  table  from  another  room.  Super- 
intendent Galloway,  with  inky  fingers  and  a  red  face, 
and  a  sheaf  of  foolscap  papers  in  his  hand,  came  bustling 
out  of  the  bar  parlour  to  superintend  the  arrangements. 
When  the  chairs  had  been  placed  to  his  liking  he  ordered 
the  innkeeper  to  bring  him  a  glass  of  ale.  While  he 
was  drinking  it  Constable  Queensmead  entered  the 
front  door  with  a  file  of  shambling,  rough-looking  vil- 
lagers trailing  behind  him,  and  announced  to  his  su- 
perior officer  that  the  men  were  intended  to  form  a 


126  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

jury.  Superintendent  Galloway  seemed  quite  satisfied 
with  their  appearance,  and  remarked  to  Colwyn  that  he 
didn't  care  how  soon  the  coroner  arrived — now  he  had 
the  jury  and  witnesses  ready  for  him. 

"How  many  witnesses  do  you  propose  to  call?"  said 
Colwyn. 

"Five:  Queensmead,  Benson,  the  waiter,  and  the  two 
men  who  found  the  footprints  leading  to  the  pit  and 
who  recovered  the  body  and  brought  it  here.  That's 
enough  for  a  committal.  The  coroner  will  no  doubt 
bring  a  doctor  from  Heathfield  to  certify  the  cause  of 
death.  I've  got  all  the  statements  ready.  I  took  Ben- 
son's and  the  waiter's  yesterday.  The  waiter's  evidence 
is  the  principal  thing,  of  course.  Do  you  remember 
suggesting  to  me  last  night  the  possibility  of  this  mur- 
der having  been  committed  by  one  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's 
workmen  with  a  grudge  against  him?  Well,  it's  a  very 
strange  thing,  but  Queensmead  was  telling  me  this  morn- 
ing that  one  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  workmen  had  a  grudge 
against  him.  He's  a  chap  named  Hyson,  the  local  ne'er- 
do-well,  who  was  almost  starving  when  Mr.  Glenthorpe 
came  to  the  district.  Glenthorpe  was  warned  against 
employing  him,  but  the  fellow  got  round  him  with  a 
piteous  tale,  and  he  put  him  on.  He  proved  to  be  just 
as  ungrateful  as  the  average  British  workman,  and 
caused  the  old  gentleman  a  lot  of  trouble.  He  seems 
to  have  been  a  bit  of  a  sea  lawyer,  and  tried  to  disaffect 
the  other  workmen  by  talking  to  them  about  socialism, 
and  the  rights  of  labour,  and  that  sort  of  rubbish.  When 
I  heard  this  I  had  the  chap  brought  to  the  inn  and  cross- 
questioned  him  a  bit,  but  I  am  certain  that  he  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  murder.  He's  a  weak,  spineless 
sort  of  chap,  full  »f  argument  and  fond  of  beer — that's 
his  character  in  the  village— and  the  last  man  in  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  127 

world  to  commit  a  murder  like  this.  I  flatter  myself," 
added  Superintendent  Galloway  in  a  tone  of  mingled 
self-complacency  and  pride,  "that  I  know  a  murderer 
when  I  see  one." 

"Have  you  made  any  inquiries  about  umbrellas?" 
asked  Colwyn. 

"Yes.  Apparently  Ronald  did  not  bring  an  umbrella 
with  him,  though  it's  cost  me  some  trouble  to  establish 
that  fact.  It  is  astonishing  how  unobservant  people  are 
about  such  things  as  umbrellas,  sticks,  and  handbags. 
Most  people  remember  faces  and  clothes  with  some  ac- 
curacy, but  cannot  recall  whether  a  person  carried  an 
umbrella  or  walking-stick.  Charles  is  not  sure  whether 
Ronald  carried  an  umbrella,  Benson  thinks  he  did  not, 
and  Ann  is  sure  he  didn't.  The  balance  of  evidence 
being  on  the  negative  side,  I  assume  that  Ronald  did 
not  bring  an  umbrella  to  the  inn,  because  it  was  more 
likely  to  have  been  noticed  if  he  had.  I  next  inquired 
about  the  umbrellas  in  the  house.  At  first  I  was  told 
there  were  only  two — a  cumbrous,  Robinson  Crusoe 
sort  of  affair,  kept  in  the  kitchen  and  used  by  the  ser- 
vant, and  a  smaller  one,  belonging  to  Benson's  daughter. 
I  have  examined  both.  The  covering  of  the  girl's  um- 
brella is  complete.  Ann's  is  rent  in  several  places,  but 
the  covering  is  blue,  whereas  the  piece  of  umbrella  cov- 
ering we  found  adhering  to  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  window 
is  black.  While  I  was  questioning  Ann  she  suddenly  re- 
membered that  there  was  another  umbrella  in  that  lum- 
ber-room upstairs.  We  went  upstairs  to  look  for  it,  but 
we  couldn't  find  it,  though  Ann  says  she  saw  it  there  a 
day  or  two  before  the  murder.  I  think  we  may  as- 
sume that  Ronald  took  it." 

"But  Ronald  was  a  stranger  to  the  place.  How 
would  he  know  the  umbrella  was  in  the  lumber-room?" 


128  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

said  Colwyn,  who  had  followed  Galloway's  narrative 
with  close  attention. 

"The  door  of  the  lumber-room  stands  ajar.  Ronald 
probably  looked  in  from  curiosity,  and  saw  the  um- 
brella." 

The  easy  assurance  with  which  Superintendent  Gallo- 
way dismissed  or  got  over  difficulties  which  interfered 
with  his  own  theory  did  not  commend  itself  to  Colwyn, 
but  he  did  not  pursue  the  point  further. 

"Is  the  umbrella  still  missing?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  It  seems  that  even  a  murderer  cannot  be 
trusted  to  return  an  umbrella."  Superintendent  Gallo- 
way laughed  shortly  at  his  grim  joke  and  walked  away 
to  supervise  the  preparations  for  the  inquest. 

The  coroner  presently  arrived  from  Heathfield  in  a 
small  runabout  motor-car  which  he  drove  himself,  with 
a  tall  man  sitting  beside  him,  and  a  short  pursy  young 
man  in  the  back  seat  nursing  a  portable  typewriter 
and  an  attache  case  on  his  knees.  Toiling  in  the  rear, 
some  distance  behind  the  car,  was  a  figure  on  a  bicycle, 
which  subsequently  turned  out  to  be  the  reporter  of  the 
Heathfield  local  paper,  who  had  come  over  with  in- 
structions from  one  of  the  London  agencies  to  send  a 
twenty  line  report  of  the  inquest  for  the  London  press. 
In  peace  times  "specials"  would  probably  have  been 
despatched  from  the  metropolis  to  "do  a  display  story," 
and  interview  some  of  the  persons  concerned,  but  the 
war  had  discounted  by  seventy-five  per  cent  the  value  of 
murders  as  newspaper  "copy." 

The  coroner,  a  short,  stout,  commonplace  little  man, 
jumped  out  of  the  car  as  soon  as  it  stopped,  and  bustled 
into  the  inn  with  an  air  of  fussy  official  importance, 
leaving  his  companions  to  follow. 

"Good  day,  Galloway,"  he  exclaimed,  as  that  officer 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  129 

came  forward  to  greet  him.  "I  hope  you've  got  every- 
thing ready." 

"Everything's  ready,  Mr.  Edgehill.  Do  you  intend 
to  commence  before  lunch?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  Are  you  aware  that  it  is  war-time? 
How  many  witnesses  have  you?" 

"Five,   sir.     Their  statements  have  all  been  taken." 

"Then  I  shall  go  straight  through — it  seems  a  simple 
case — merely  a  matter  of  form,  from  what  I  have  heard 
of  it.  I  have  another  inquest  at  Downside  at  four 
o'clock.  Where's  the  body?  Where's  the  jury?  Up- 
stairs? Doctor" — this  to  the  tall  thin  man  who  had  sat 
beside  him  in  the  runabout — "will  you  go  upstairs  with 
Queensmead  and  make  your  examination?  Pendy" — 
this  to  the  young  man  with  the  typewriter  and  attache 
case — "get  everything  ready  and  swear  in  the  jury.  Gal- 
loway will  show  you  the  room.  What's  that?  Oh, 
that's  quite  all  right" — this  in  reply  to  some  murmured 
apology  on  the  part  of  Superintendent  Galloway  for 
the  mental  incapacity  of  the  jury — "we  ought  to  be 
glad  to  get  juries  at  all — in  war-time." 

Colwyn  had  feared  that  the  result  of  the  inquest  was 
a  foregone  conclusion  the  moment  he  saw  the  coroner 
alighting  from  his  motor-car  outside  the  inn.  Ten 
minutes  later,  when  the  little  man  had  commenced  his 
investigations,  he  realised  that  the  proceedings  were 
merely  a  formal  compliance  with  the  law,  and  in  no 
sense  of  the  word  an  inquiry. 

Mr.  Edgehill,  the  coroner,  was  one  of  those  people  who 
seized  upon  the  war  as  a  pretext  for  the  exercise  of  their 
natural  proclivity  to  interfere  in  other  people's  affairs. 
He  took  the  opportunity  that  every  inquest  gave  him 
to  lecture  the  British  public  on  their  duties  and  responsi- 
bilities in  war-time.  The  body  on  which  he  was  sitting 


I3o  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

formed  his  text,  the  jury  was  his  congregation,  and  the 
newspaper  reporters  the  vehicles  by  which  his  admoni- 
tions were  conveyed  to  the  nation.  Mr.  Edgehill  saw  a 
shirker  in  every  suicide,  national  improvidence  in  a 
corpse  with  empty  pockets,  and  had  even  been  able  to 
discover  a  declining  war  morale  in  death  by  misadven- 
ture. He  thanked  God  for  air  raids  and  food  queues 
because  they  brought  the  war  home  to  civilians,  and  he 
was  never  tired  of  asserting  that  he  lived  on  half  the 
voluntary  ration  scale,  did  harder  work,  felt  ten  years 
younger,  and  a  hundred  times  more  virtuous,  in  conse- 
quence. 

If  he  did  not  actually  insert  the  last  clause  his  look 
implied  a  superior  virtue  to  his  fellow  creatures,  and 
was  meekly  accepted  as  such.  He  never  held  an  in- 
quest without  introducing  some  remarks  upon  unin- 
terned  aliens,  the  military  age,  Ireland  and  conscription, 
soldiers'  wives  and  drinking,  the  prevalence  of  bigamy, 
and  other  popular  war-time  topics.  In  short,  Mr.  Edge- 
hill,  like  many  other  people,  had  used  the  war  to  emerge 
from  a  chrysalis  existence  as  a  local  bore  into  a  butter- 
fly career  as  a  public  nuisance.  In  that  capacity  he  was 
still  good  "copy"  in  some  of  the  London  newspapers, 
and  was  even  occasionally  referred  to  in  leading  articles 
as  a  fine  example  of  the  sturdy  country  spirit  which  Lon- 
doners would  do  well  to  emulate. 

Before  commencing  his  inquiry  into  the  death  of  Mr. 
Glenthorpe,  the  coroner  indignantly  expressed  his  sur- 
prise that  a  small  hamlet  like  Flegne  could  produce  so 
many  able-bodied  men  to  serve  on  a  jury  in  war-time. 
But  after  ascertaining  that  all  the  members  of  the  jury 
were  over  military  age,  with  the  exception  of  one  man 
who  was  afflicted  with  heart  disease,  he  suffered  the  in- 
quest to  proceed. 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  131 

The  evidence  of  the  innkeeper  and  the  waiter  was  a 
repetition  of  the  story  they  had  told  to  the  chief  con- 
stable on  the  preceding  day.  Constable  Queensmead,  in 
his  composed  way,  related  the  action  he  had  taken  from 
the  time  of  his  visit  to  Durrington  in  order  to  acquaint 
Superintendent  Galloway  with  the  fact  of  the  murder. 

The  only  additional  evidence  brought  forward  was 
given  by  two  of  the  men  who  had  been  in  the  late  Mr. 
Glenthorpe's  employ.  These  men,  Backlos  and  Duney, 
had  found  the  track  of  the  footprints  in  the  clay  near  the 
pit  on  going  to  work  the  previous  morning,  and  after  the 
discovery  that  Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  missing  from  the 
inn,  Duney  had  been  let  down  into  the  pit  by  a  rope,  and 
had  brought  up  the  body.  Both  these  men  told  their 
story,  with  a  wealth  of  unlettered  detail,  and  Backlos, 
who  was  one  of  the  aboriginals  of  the  district,  added  his 
personal  opinion  that  t'oud  ma'aster  mun  'a'  been  very 
dead  afore  the  chap  got  him  in  the  pit,  else  he  would  'a' 
dinged  one  of  the  chap's  eyes  in,  t'oud  ma'aster  not 
bein'  a  man  to  be  taken  anywhere  against  his  will.  How- 
ever the  chap  that  carried  him  must  'a'  been  powerful 
strong,  because  witness's  own  arms  were  begunnin'  ter 
ache  good  tidily  just  a-howdin'  him  up  to  the  rope  when 
they  wor  being  a-hawled  out  the  pit. 

The  coroner,  in  his  summing  up,  dwelt  upon  the  strong 
circumstantial  evidence  against  Ronald,  and  the  folly 
of  the  deceased  in  withdrawing  a  large  sum  of  money 
from  the  bank  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  out  scientific 
research  in  war-time.  "Had  he  invested  that  money  in 
war  bonds  he  would  have  probably  been  alive  to-day," 
said  Mr.  Edgehill  gravely.  The  jury  had  no  hesitation 
in  returning  a  verdict  of  wilful  murder  against  James 
Ronald. 

The  coroner,  the  doctor,  the  clerk  carrying  the  type- 


132  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

writer  and  the  attache  case,  and  Superintendent  Gallo- 
way departed  in  the  runabout  motor-car  shortly  after- 
wards. Before  evening  a  mortuary  van,  with  two  men, 
appeared  from  Heathfield  and  removed  the  body  of  the 
murdered  man. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IF  the  inmates  of  the  inn  felt  any  surprise  at  Col- 
wyn's  remaining  after  the  inquest,  they  did  not  betray  it. 
That  evening  Ann  nervously  intercepted  him  to  ask 
if  he  would  have  a  partridge  for  his  dinner,  and  Col- 
wyn,  remembering  the  shortness  of  the  inn  larder,  re- 
plied that  a  partridge  would  do  very  well.  Later  on 
Charles  served  it  in  the  bar  parlour,  and  waited  with 
his  black  eyes  fixed  on  Colwyn's  lips,  sometimes  antici- 
pating his  orders  before  they  were  uttered.  He  brought 
a  bottle  of  claret  from  the  inn  cellar,  assuring  Colwyn  in 
his  soft  whisper  that  he  would  find  the  wine  excellent, 
and  Colwyn,  after  sampling  it,  found  no  reason  for 
disagreeing  with  the  waiter's  judgment. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  meal  Colwyn  sent  for  the 
innkeeper,  and  asked  him  a  number  of  questions  about 
the  district  and  its  inhabitants.  The  innkeeper  inti- 
mated that  Flegne  was  a  poor  place  at  the  best  of  times, 
but  the  war  had  made  it  worse,  and  the  poorer  folk — 
the  villagers  who  lived  in  the  beachstone  cottages — were 
sometimes  hard-pressed  to  keep  body  and  soul  together. 
They  did  what  they  could,  eking  out  their  scanty  earn- 
ings by  eel-fishing  on  the  marshes,  and  occasionally  snar- 
ing a  few  wild  fowl.  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  researches  in 
the  district  had  been  a  godsend  because  of  the  employ- 
ment he  had  given,  which  had  brought  a  little  ready 
money  into  the  place. 

It  was  obvious  to  Colwyn's  alert  intelligence  that  the 
innkeeper  did  not  care  to  talk  about  his  dead  guest. 

J33 


134  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

There  was  no  visible  reluctance — indeed,  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  trace  the  sign  of  any  particular  emotion 
on  his  queer,  birdlike  face — but  his  replies  were  slow  in 
coming  when  questioned  about  Mr  Glenthorpe,  and  he 
made  several  attempts  to  turn  the  conversation  in  an- 
other direction.  When  he  had  finished  a  glass  of  wine 
Colwyn  offered  him,  he  got  up  from  the  table  with  the 
remark  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  return  to  the  bar. 

"I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Colwyn.  "It  will  help  to 
pass  away  an  hour." 

There  were  about  a  dozen  men  in  the  bar — agricul- 
tural labourers  and  fishermen — clustered  in  groups  of 
twos  and  threes  in  front  of  the  counter,  or  sitting  on 
stools  by  the  wall,  drinking  ale  by  the  light  of  a  smoky 
oil  lamp  which  hung  from  the  rafters.  The  fat  deaf 
waiter  was  in  the  earthy  recess  behind  the  counter, 
drawing  ale  into  stone  mugs. 

A  loud  voice  which  had  been  holding  forth  ceased 
suddenly  as  Colwyn  entered.  The  inmates  of  the  bar 
regarded  him  questioningly,  and  some  resentfully,  as 
though  they  considered  his  presence  an  intrusion.  But 
Colwyn  was  accustomed  to  making  himself  at  home  in 
all  sorts  of  company.  He  walked  across  the  bar,  called 
for  some  whisky,  and,  while  it  was  being  served,  ad- 
dressed a  friendly  remark  to  the  nearest  group  to  him. 
One  of  the  men,  a  white-bearded,  keen-eyed  Norfolk 
man,  answered  his  question  civilly  enough.  He  had 
asked  about  wild  fowl  shooting  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  the  old  man  had  been  a  water  bailiff  on  the  Broads 
in  his  younger  days.  The  question  of  sport  will  draw 
most  men  together.  One  after  another  of  the  villagers 
joined  in  the  conversation,  and  were  soon  as  much  at 
home  with  Colwyn  as  though  they  had  known  him  from 
boyhood.  Some  of  them  were  going  eel-fishing  that 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  135 

night,  and  Colwyn  violated  the  provisions  of  the  "no 
treating"  order  to  give  them  a  glass  of  whisky  to  keep 
out  the  cold  of  the  marshes.  The  rest  of  the  tap  room 
he  regaled  with  ale. 

From  these  Norfolk  fishermen  Colwyn  learnt  many  of 
the  secrets  of  the  wild  and  many  cunning  methods  of 
capturing  its  creatures,  but  the  real  object  of  his  visit 
to  the  bar — to  discover  whether  any  of  the  frequenters 
of  the  Golden  Anclwr  had  ever  seen  Ronald  in  the  dis- 
trict before  the  evening  of  the  murder — remained  un- 
satisfied. He  was  a  stranger  to  "theer"  parts,  the  men 
said,  in  response  to  questions  on  the  subject. 

But  "theer"  parts  were  limited  to  a  mile  or  so  of  the 
marshland  in  which  they  spent  their  narrow,  lonely  lives. 
Their  conversation  revealed  that  they  seldom  went  out- 
side that  narrow  domain.  Durrington,  which  was  little 
more  than  ten  miles  away,  was  only  a  name  to  them. 
Many  of  them  had  not  been  as  far  as  Leyland  for  months. 
They  spent  their  days  catching  eels  in  the  marsh  canals. 
or  in  setting  lobster  and  crab  traps  outside  the  break- 
water. The  agricultural  labourers  tilled  the  same  patch 
of  ground  year  after  year.  They  had  no  recreations  ex- 
cept an  occasional  night  at  the  inn ;  their  existence  was  a 
lifelong  struggle  with  Nature  for  a  bare  subsistence. 
Most  of  them  had  been  born  in  the  beachstone  cot- 
tages where  their  fathers  had  been  born  before  them, 
and  most  of  them  would  die,  as  their  fathers  had  died, 
in  the  little  damp  bedrooms  where  they  had  first  seen 
the  light,  passing  away,  as  their  fathers  had  passed  away, 
listening  to  the  sound  of  the  North  Sea  restlessly  beat- 
ing against  the  breakwater.  That  sound  was  never  out 
of  their  ears  while  they  lived,  and  it  was  the  dirge  to 
which  they  died.  Such  was  their  life,  but  they  knew  no 
other,  and  wished  for  none. 


136  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

Colwyn  was  early  astir  the  following  morning,  and 
after  breakfast  went  out.  His  purpose  was  to  try  to 
discover  anything  which  would  throw  light  on  Ronald's 
appearance  at  Flegne.  With  that  object  he  scoured  the 
country  for  some  miles  in  the  direction  of  Heathfield, 
for  he  deemed  the  possibility  of  Ronald  having  come  by 
that  route  worth  inquiring  into.  But  his  time  was 
wasted;  none  of  his  inquiries  brought  to  light  anything 
to  suggest  that  Ronald  had  ever  been  in  the  district  be- 
fore. 

When  he  returned  to  the  village  the  day  was  more 
than  half  spent.  As  he  entered  the  inn,  he  encountered 
Charles,  who  stopped  when  he  saw  him. 

"There  are  two  men  in  the  bar  asking  to  see  you,  sir," 
he  said,  in  his  soft  whisper.  "Duney  and  Backlos  are 
their  names.  They  say  they  saw  you  in  the  bar  last 
night,  and  they  would  like  to  speak  to  you  privately,  if 
you  have  no  objection." 

"Show  them  into  the  bar  parlour,"  the  detective  said. 
"And,  Charles,  you  might  ask  Ann  to  let  me  have  a  little 
lunch  when  they  are  gone." 

'  Colwyn  proceeded  to  the  bar  parlour.  A  moment  or 
two  afterwards  the  waiter  ushered  in  two  men  and  with- 
drew, dosing  the  door  after  him. 

In  response  to  Colwyn's  request,  his  two  visitors  seated 
themselves  awkwardly,  but  they  seemed  to  have  con- 
siderable difficulty  in  stating  the  object  of  their  visit. 
Duney,  one  of  the  men  who  had  helped  to  recover  Mr. 
Glenthorpe's  body  from  the  pit,  was  a  short,  thickset, 
hairy-faced  man,  with  round  surprised  eyes,  which  he 
kept  intently  fixed  upon  the  detective's  face,  as  though 
seeking  inspiration  for  speech  from  that  source.  The 
other  man,  Backlos,  was  a  tall,  hawk-featured  man  with  a 
sweeping  black  moustache,  who  needed  only  gaudy  habili- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  137 

merits  to  make  him  the  ideal  pirate  king  of  the  comic 
opera  stage.  It  was  he  who  spoke  first. 

"If  you  please,  ma'aster,  we  uns  come  to  you  thinkin' 
as  you  might  gi'  us  a  bit  o'  advice." 

"About  somefin'  we  seed  last  night,"  explained  Mr. 
Duney,  finding  his  own  voice  at  the  sound  of  his  com- 
panion's. 

"I  thowt  'ow  'twas  agreed  'tween  us  I  wor  to  tell  the 
gentleman,  bor  ?"  growled  the  pirate  king,  turning  a  pair 
of  dusky  eyes  on  his  companion.  "You  allus  have  a  way 
o'  overdoin'  things,  you  know,  Dick." 

"Right,  bor,  right,"  replied  Mr.  Duney.  "Yow  oughter 
know  I  only  wanted  to  help  yow  out,  Billy." 

"I  dawn't  want  onny  helpin'  out/'  replied  the  pirate. 
"It's  loike  this  'ere,  ma'aster,"  he  continued,  turning 
again  to  Colwyn.  "Arter  Dick  and  I  left  the  Anchor 
las'  night,  thowt  we'd  be  walkin'  a  spell.  We  wor  a 
talkin'  o'  th'  murder  at  th'  time,  and  wonderin'  what  we 
wor  to  do  fur  another  job  o'  work,  things  bein'  moighty 
bad  heerabouts,  when,  as  we  neared  top  o'  th'  rise,  we 
he-ered  the  rummiest  kind  o'  noise  a  man  ever  heerd, 
comin'  from  that  theer  wood  by  th'  pits.  Dick  says  to 
me,  in  a  skeered  kind  of  voice,  'That's  fair  a  rum  un/ 
says  he.  There  wornt  much  mune  at  th'  time,  but  we  could 
see  things  clar  enough,  and  thow  we  looked  around  us 
we  couldn't  see  a  livin'  thing  a  movin'  either  nigh  th' 
woods  nor  on  th'  ma'shes.  While  we  looked  we  seed  a 
big  harnsee  rise  out  o'  th'  woods  and  go  a  flappin'  away 
across  th'  ma'shes.  Then  all  of  a  suddint  we  saw  some- 
fin'  come  a-wamblin'  outer  the  shadder  o'  the  wood,  and 
run  along  by  th'  edge  of  ut.  We  couldn't  make  out  a' 
furst  what  it  moight  be,  thow  for  sure  we  got  a  rare 
fright.  For  my  part,  I  thowt  it  might  a'  been  ole  Black 
Shuck,  thow  th'  night  didn't  seem  windy  enough  for  un." 


138  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"Stop  a  bit,"  said  Colwyn.  "What  do  you  mean  by 
Black  Shuck  ?  Oh,  I  remember.  It's  a  Norfolk  tradition 
or  ghost  story,  isn't  it?  Black  Shuck  is  supposed  to  be 
a  big  black  dog,  with  one  eye  in  the  middle  of  the  head, 
who  runs  without  sound  and  howls  louder  than  the  wind. 
Whoever  meets  him  is  sure  to  die  before  the  year  is  out." 

"That's  him,"  said  Mr.  Backlos,  affirming,  with  a  grave 
nod  of  his  head,  his  own  profound  belief  in  the  canine 
apparition  in  question.  "My  grandfeyther  seen  un  once 
not  a  hundred  yards  from  the  very  spot  were  we  wor 
standin'  last  night,  and,  sure  enough,  he  died  afore  three 
months  wor  out.  Dick  and  I  couldn't  tell  what  it  wor 
we  see  creepin'  out  o'  th'  shadder  o'  th'  wood,  an'  to  tell 
yow  th'  trewth,  ma'aster,  we  didn't  care  to  look  agen. 
I  asked  Dick  if  he  didn't  think  it  wor  Black  Shuck. 
'Naw  daywt,'  says  Dick,  'if  it  ain't  somefin'  worse.' 
'What  do'st  a'  mean,  bor?'  says  I.  'Well,'  says  Dick 
slowly  like,  'it  might  be  the  sperrit  from  th'  pit,  for  'twas 
in  no  mortal  man  to  holler  out  like  that  cry  we  just 
heered.'  Wornt  those  yower  words,  bor?" 

Mr.  Duney,  thus  appealed  to,  nodded  portentously,  as 
though  to  indicate  that  his  words  were  well  justified. 

"Never  mind  the  spirit  from  the  pit,"  said  Colwyn. 
"Go  on  with  your  story." 

"Well,  ma'aster,  just  as  we  wor  walkin'  away  from  th' 
wood  as  fast  as  ever  we  could,  th'  mune  come  out  from 
behind  th'  shadder  of  a  cloud,  and  threw  a  light  right 
ower  th'  wood.  We  just  happened  to  give  a  glance  round 
ahind  us  at  th'  time,  to  see  if  we  wor  bein'  follered,  and, 
by  its  light,  we  saw  a  man  a  creepin'  back  into  th'  wood." 

"A  man  ?    Are  you  sure  it  was  a  man  ?" 

"There's  no  manner  o'  doubt  about  that,  ma'aster.  We 
both  saw  it  once,  and  we  didn't  wait  to  look  again.  We 
run  as  hard  as  we  could  pile  to  Dick's  cottage  by  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  139 

ma'shes,  and  got  inside  and  stood  listenin'  to  heer  if  we 
were  bein'  follered.  Dick  says  to  me,  says  'e,  'S'posen  it 
wor  the  chap  who  murdered  owd  Mr.  Glenthorpe  at  the 
Anchor?'  I  thowt  as  much  meself,  but  a'  tried  to  laugh 
it  off,  and  says  to  Dick,  'What  fa  should  it  be  him  ?  He's 
far  enough  away  by  this  time,  for  we  s'arched  the  place 
round  fur  miles,  and  we  took  in  that  theer  wood  where 
we  just  see  un.'  'We  never  s'arched  th'  wood/  says 
Dick,  'leastways,  not  proper,  an'  it's  a  rare  hidin'  place 
for  un.'  'So  it  be,  to  be  sure,'  says  I.  'If  he  sees  that 
there  light  we'll  be  browt  out  from  heer  dead  men,'  says 
Dick.  'So  we  will,  for  sartin,'  says  I.  'Let's  put  out 
th'  light,  so  th'  bloody-minded  murderer  won't  ha'  nar- 
thin'  to  go  by  if  he  ain't  seen  it  yet.'  So  we  put  out  th' 
light  and  stayed  theer  till  th'  mornin',  when  we  went  out 
to  work,  and  then  when  I  seed  Dick  later  we  thowt  we'd 
come  and  tell  you  all  about  it,  seein'  as  yower  a  gentle- 
man, and  in  consiquence  a  man  of  larnin',  and  might 
p'rhaps  tell  us  what  we'd  better  do." 

"You  have  certainly  done  the  proper  thing  in  disclos- 
ing what  you  have  seen,"  said  the  detective,  after  a 
thoughtful  pause.  "But  why  have  you  come  to  me  in 
the  matter?  It  seems  to  me  that  the  proper  course  to 
pursue  would  be  to  lay  your  information  before  Con- 
stable Queensmead." 

The  two  men  exchanged  a  glance  of  conscious  embar- 
rassment. Then  Mr.  Backlos,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns, 
blurted  out: 

"It's  like  this,  ma'aster.  We  be  in  a  bit  o'  a  fix  about 
that.  Yow  see,  last  night  we  were  out  arter  conies,  and 
thow  I  can  swar  we  were  out  in  th'  open  and  not  lookin' 
for  conies  on  annybody's  land,  cos  Dick  an'  I  have  al- 
ready bin  fined  ten  bob  for  snarin'  conies  on  Farmer 


I4o  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

Cranky 's  land,  an'  if  we  went  to  Queensmead  he  moight 
think  we'd  been  a  snarin'  there  again.  So  Dick  says  to 
me,  says  he,  'Why  not  see  the  chap  wot  came  into  th' 
Anchor  bar  last  night  ?  Annybody  can  see  wi'  half  an  eye 
that  he's  a  real  swell,  for  didn't  he  stand  treat  all  round 
— an'  wot  he  says  we'll  go  by,  and  'e  won't  treat  us 
dirty,  whatever  he  says,  though,  mind  ye,  bor,  there's 
narthin'  to  gi'  away.  So  let's  go  to  thissun,  an'  tell  un 
all  about  it.'" 

"I  also  tol'  yow,  Billy,  that  if  thar  be  a  reward  out  for 
this  chap  wot  killed  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  thissun  'ud  tell  us 
how  to  get  it  without  sharin'  wi'  Queensmead,  who  does 
narthin'  but  take  th'  bread  owt  o'  ower  mouths,  he  bein' 
so  sharp  about  th'  conies.  For  if  this  chap  in  th'  woods 
is  the  one  wot  killed  owd  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  we  have  a 
right  to  th'  money  for  cotchin'  un.  Didn't  I  say  that, 
Billy?" 

"Yow  did,  bor,  yow  did;  them  wor  yower  vaery 
words,"  acquiesced  Mr.  Backlos. 

"I  think  you  had  better  leave  the  matter  in  my  hands," 
said  Colwyn,  with  difficulty  repressing  a  smile  at  this 
exceedingly  Norfolk  explanation.  "And  now,  you  had 
better  have  a  drink,  for  I  am  sure  you  must  be  dry  after 
all  that  talk." 

The  men,  after  drinking  Colwyn's  health  in  two  mugs 
of  ale,  departed  with  placid  countenances,  and  Colwyn 
was  left  to  meditate  over  the  news  they  had  imparted. 
The  result  of  his  meditations  was  that  he  presently  went 
forth  in  search  of  Police  Constable  Queensmead. 

The  constable  lived  in  the  village  street — in  a  beach- 
stone  cottage  which  was  in  slightly  better  repair  than  its 
neighbours,  and  much  better  kept.  There  were  white 
curtains  in  the  windows,  and  in  the  garden  a  few  late 
stocks  and  hardy  climbing  roses  were  making  a  brave 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  141 

effort  to  bloom  in  depressing  surroundings.  It  was 
Queensmead  who  answered  the  door  to  the  detective's 
knock,  and  he  led  the  way  inside  to  his  little  office  when 
he  saw  who  his  visitor  was. 

"I  do  not  think  these  chaps  saw  anything  except  what 
their  own  fears  created,"  he  said,  after  Colwyn  had  told 
him  as  much  of  the  two  men's  story  as  he  saw  fit  to 
impart.  "I  searched  the  wood  thoroughly  the  day  after 
the  murder.  Ronald  was  not  there  then." 

"He  may  have  come  back  since." 

Queensmead's  dark  eyes  lingered  thoughtfully  on  the 
detective's  face,  as  though  seeking  to  gather  the  meaning 
underlying  his  words. 

"Why  should  he  do  such  a  foolish  thing,  sir?"  he 
asked. 

"It  is  not  always  easy  to  account  for  a  man's  actions." 

"It  is  hard  to  account  for  a  man  wanted  by  the  police 
running  his  head  into  a  noose." 

"Ronald  may  not  know  he  is  wanted  by  the  police." 

"Why,  of  course  he  must  know.  If  he  doesn't " 

Queensmead  broke  off  suddenly  and  looked  at  the  de- 
tective queerly,  as  if  suddenly  realising  all  that  the  re- 
mark implied.  "You  must  have  some  strange  ideas  about 
this  case,"  he  added  slowly. 

"I  have,  but  we  won't  go  into  them  now,"  said  the  de- 
tective, with  a  slight  smile.  He  appreciated  the  fact 
that  the  other  was,  to  use  an  American  colloquialism, 
"quick  on  the  uptake."  "Your  immediate  duty  is  clear." 

"You  mean  I  should  search  the  wood  again?"  said 
Queensmead,  with  the  same  quick  comprehension  as  be- 
fore. "Very  well.  Will  you  come  with  me?" 

Colwyn  nodded,  and  Queensmead,  without  more  ado, 
took  a  revolver  and  a  pair  of  handcuffs  from  a  cup- 
board, slipped  them  into  his  pockets,  and  announced  that 


142  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

he  was  ready.  He  opened  the  door  for  his  visitor  to 
precede  him,  and  they  set  forth. 

The  hut  circles  on  the  rise  looked  more  desolate  than 
ever  in  the  waning  afternoon  light.  The  excavations 
commenced  by  Mr.  Glenthorpe  had  been  abandoned,  and 
a  spade  left  sticking  in  the  upturned  earth  had  rusted 
in  the  damp  air.  The  track  of  the  footprints  to  the  pit 
in  which  the  body  had  been  flung  still  showed  distinctly 
in  the  clay,  and  the  splash  of  blood  gleamed  dully  on 
the  edge  of  the  hole.  On  the  other  side  of  the  pit  the 
trees  of  the  wood  stoed  in  stunted  outline  against  a 
lowering  black  sky. 

The  two  men  entered  the  wood  silently.  The  trees 
were  of  great  age,  the  trunks  thick  and  gnarled,  with 
low  twisted  boughs,  running  and  interlacing  in  every 
direction.  So  thickly  were  they  intertwined  that  it  was 
twilight  in  the  sombre  depths  of  the  wood,  although  the 
fierce  winds  from  the  North  Sea  had  already  stripped 
the  upper  branches  of  leaves.  The  ground  was  covered 
with  a  rank  and  rotting  undergrowth,  from  which  tiny 
spirals  of  vapour,  like  gnomes'  fires,  floated  upwards. 
The  silence  was  absolute;  even  the  birds  of  the  coast 
seemed  to  shun  the  place,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
untrodden  since  the  days  when  the  beast  men  of  the  Stone 
Age  prowled  through  its  dim  recesses  to  the  hut  circles 
on  the  rise. 

Colwyn  and  Queensmead  searched  the  wood  and  the 
matted  undergrowth  as  they  progressed,  closely  scrutin- 
ising the  ferny  hollows,  looking  up  into  the  trees,  ex- 
amining the  thickets  and  clumps  of  shrubs.  They  had 
reached  the  centre  of  the  wood,  and  were  picking  their 
way  through  a  rank  growth  of  nettles  which  covered  the 
decayed  bracken,  when  Colwyn  experienced  a  mental 
perception  as  tangible  as  a  cold  hand  placed  upon  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  143 

brow  of  a  sleeper.  He  had  the  swift  feeling  that  there 
was  somebody  else  besides  themselves  in  the  solitude  of 
the  wood — somebody  who  was  watching  them.  He  looked 
around  him  intently,  and  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  screen  of 
interlaced  branches  which  grew  on  the  other  side  of 
the  dip  they  were  traversing.  Without  any  conscious 
effort  on  his  own  part,  his  eyes  travelled  to  the  thickest 
part  of  the  obstruction,  and  encountered  another  pair  of 
eyes  gazing  at  him  steadily  from  the  depths  of  the  leafy 
screen.  That  gaze  held  his  own  for  a  moment,  and 
then  vanished.  He  looked  again,  but  the  screen  was 
now  unbroken,  and  not  the  rustle  of  a  leaf  betrayed  the 
person  who  was  concealed  within. 

Colwyn  touched  Queensmead's  arm. 

"There  is  somebody  hiding  in  those  bushes  ahead  of 
us,"  he  whispered. 

Queensmead's  eyes  ran  swiftly  along  the  clump  of 
bushes  ahead,  and  he  raised  his  revolver. 

"Come  out,  or  I'll  fire !"  he  cried. 

His  sharp  command  shattered  the  heavy  silence  like 
the  crack  of  a  firearm.  The  next  moment  the  figure 
of  a  man  broke  from  the  twisted  branches  and  walked 
down  the  slope  towards  them.  It  was  Ronald. 

"Put  up  your  hands,  Ronald,"  commanded  Queens- 
mead  sternly,  poising  the  revolver  at  the  advancing  man. 
"Put  them  up,  or  I'll  fire." 

"Fire  if  you  like." 

The  words  fell  from  Ronald's  lips  wearily,  but  he  did 
not  put  up  his  hands.  His  clothes  were  torn  and  stained, 
his  face  gaunt  and  lined,  and  in  his  tired  eyes  was  the 
look  of  a  man  who  had  lived  in  the  solitudes  with  no 
other  companion  but  despair.  Queensmead  stepped  for- 
ward and  with  a  swift  gesture  snapped  the  handcuffs 
on  his  wrist. 


144  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"I  arrest  you  for  the  murder  of  Roger  Glenthorpe," 
he  said. 

"I  could  have  got  away  from  you  if  I  had  wanted," 
said  the  young  man  wearily.  "But  what  was  the  use? 
I'm  glad  it  is  over." 

"I  warn  you,  Ronald,  that  any  statement  you  now  make 
may  be  used  against  you  on  your  trial,"  broke  in  Queens- 
mead  harshly. 

"My  good  fellow,  I  know  all  about  that."  The  sudden 
note  of  imperiousness  in  his  manner  reminded  Colwyn 
of  the  way  in  which  he  had  snubbed  Sir  Henry  Durwood 
in  his  bedroom  at  the  Durrington  hotel  three  mornings 
before.  But  it  was  in  his  previous  indifferent  tone  that 
the  young  man  added:  "Have  either  of  you  a  spirit 
flask?" 

Police  Constable  Oueensmead  eyed  his  captive  with  the 
critical  eye  of  an  officer  of  justice  upon  whom  devolved 
the  responsibility  of  bringing  his  man  fit  and  well  to 
trial.  Ronald's  face  had  gone  haggard  and  white,  and  he 
lurched  a  little  in  his  walk.  Then  he  stood  still,  and  re- 
garded the  two  men  weakly. 

"I'm  about  done  up,"  he  admitted. 

"We'd  better  take  him  to  the  inn  and  get  him  some 
brandy,"  said  Queensmead.  "Take  his  other  arm,  will 
you?" 

They  returned  slowly  with  Ronald  between  them.  He 
did  not  ask  where  they  were  taking  him,  but  stumbled 
along  on  their  supporting  arms  like  a  man  in  a  dream, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  When  clear  of  the 
wood,  Queensmead  led  his  prisoner  past  the  pit  where 
Mr.  Glenthorpe's  body  had  been  cast,  but  Ronald  did  not 
even  glance  at  the  yawning  hole  alongside  of  him.  It  was 
when  they  were  descending  the  slope  towards  the  inn 
that  Colwyn  noticed  a  change  in  his  indifferent  de- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  145 

meanour.  He  raised  his  head  and  surveyed  the  inn  with 
sombre  eyes,  and  then  his  glance  travelled  swiftly  to  his 
pinioned  hands.  For  a  moment  his  frame  stiffened 
slightly,  as  though  he  were  about  to  resist  being  taken 
farther.  But  if  that  were  his  intention  the  mood  passed. 
The  next  moment  he  was  walking  along  with  his  previous 
indifference. 

When  they  reached  the  inn  Queensmead  asked  Colwyn 
in  a  whisper  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  prisoner  while  he  went 
inside  and  got  the  brandy.  As  soon  as  he  had  gone 
Colwyn  turned  to  Ronald  and  earnestly  said: 

"You  may  not  know  me,  apart  from  our  chance  meeting 
at  Durrington,  but  I  am  anxious  to  help  you,  if  you  are 
innocent." 

"I  have  heard  of  you.  You  are  Colwyn,  the  private 
detective." 

"That  makes  it  easier  then,  for  you  will  know  that  I 
have  no  object  in  this  case  except  to  bring  the  truth  to 
light.  If  you  have  anything  to  say  that  will  help  me  to 
do  that  I  beg  of  you  to  do  so.  You  may  safely  trust  me." 

"I  know  that,  Mr.  Colwyn,  but  I  have  nothing  to  say." 
Ronald  spoke  wearily — almost  indifferently. 

"Nothing?"  Astonishment  and  disappointment  were 
mingled  in  the  detective's  voice. 

"Nothing." 

Before  anything  more  could  be  said  Queensmead  re- 
appeared from  the  inn  with  some  brandy  in  a  glass. 
Ronald  raised  it  to  his  lips  with  his  manacled  hands,  then 
turned  away  in  response  to  an  imperative  gesture  from 
Queensmead.  Colwyn  stood  where  he  was  for  a  moment, 
watching  them,  then  turned  to  enter  the  inn.  As  he  did 
so,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  white  face  of  Peggy,  framed 
in  the  gathering  gloom  of  the  passage,  staring  with  fright- 
ened eyes  at  the  retreating  forms  of  the  village  constable 


I46  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

and  his  prisoner.  She  slipped  out  of  the  door  and  took 
a  few  hurried  steps  in  their  direction.  But  when  she 
reached  the  strip  of  green  which  bordered  the  side  of 
the  inn  she  stopped  with  a  despairing  gesture,  as  though 
realising  the  futility  of  her  effort,  and  turned  to  retrace 
her  steps.  Colwyn  advanced  rapidly  towards  her. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said  curtly. 

She  stood  still,  but  there  was  a  prescient  flash  in  her 
eyes  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"You  were  in  the  dead  man's  room  last  night,"  he 
said.  "What  were  you  doing  there?" 

"I  do  not  know  that  it  is  any  business  of  yours,"  she 
replied,  in  a  low  tone. 

"I  do  not  think  you  had  better  adopt  that  attitude,"  he 
said  quietly.  "You  know  you  had  no  right  to  go  into 
that  room.  I  do  not  wish  to  threaten  you,  but  you  had 
better  tell  the  truth." 

She  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  as  though  weighing  his 
words.  Then  she  said : 

"I  will  tell  you  why  I  went  there,  not  because  I  am 
afraid  of  anything  you  can  do,  but  because  I  am  not 
afraid  of  the  truth.  I  went  there  because  of  a  promise 
I  made  to  Mr.  Glenthorpe.  He  was  very  kind  and  good 
to  me — when  he  was  alive.  Only  two  days  before  he 
met  his  death  he  asked  me,  if  anything  happened  to  him 
at  any  time,  to  go  to  his  bedroom  and  remove  a  packet 
I  would  find  in  a  little  secret  drawer  in  his  writing  table, 
and  destroy  it  without  opening  it.  He  showed  me  where 
the  packet  was,  and  how  to  open  the  drawer.  After 
he  was  dead  I  thought  of  my  promise,  and  tried  several 
times  to  slip  into  the  room  and  get  the  packet,  but  there 
was  always  somebody  about.  So  I  went  in  last  night, 
after  everybody  was  in  bed,  because  I  thought  the  police 
might  find  the  packet  in  searching  his  desk,  and  I  should 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  147 

have  been  very  unhappy  if  I  had  not  been  able  to  keep  my 
promise." 

"How  did  you  get  into  the  room?  The  door  was 
locked,  and  Superintendent  Galloway  had  the  key." 

"He  left  it  on  the  mantelpiece  downstairs.  I  saw  it 
there  earlier  in  the  evening,  and  when  he  was  out  of  the 
room  I  slipped  in  and  took  it,  and  put  the  key  of  my  own 
room  in  its  place." 

"What  did  you  do  with  the  packet  you  removed?" 

"I  took  it  across  the  marshes  and  threw  it  into  the 
sea,"  she  replied,  looking  steadily  into  his  face. 

"Why  did  you  go  to  that  trouble?  Why  did  not  not 
burn  it?" 

"I  had  no  fire,  and  I  dared  not  keep  it  till  the  morning. 
Besides,  there  were  rings  and  things  in  the  packet — his 
dead  wife's  jewellery.  He  told  me  so." 

He  looked  at  her  keenly.  She  had  told  him  the  truth 
about  her  visit  to  the  breakwater,  but  how  much  of  the 
rest  of  her  story  was  true? 

"So  that  is  your  explanation?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  find  it  difficult  to  believe.  If 
you  are  deceiving  me  you  are  very  foolish." 

"I  have  told  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Colwyn,"  she  said, 
and,  turning  away,  returned  to  the  inn. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

RONALD'S  strange  silence  after  his  arrest  decided  Col- 
wyn  to  relinquish  his  investigations  and  return  to  Dur- 
rington.  His  tacit  admissions,  coupled  with  the  damaging 
evidence  against  him,  enforced  conviction  in  the  young 
man's  guilt  in  spite  of  the  detective's  previous  belief  to 
the  contrary.  In  assisting  Queensmead  in  his  search  Col- 
wyn  had  cherished  the  hope  that  Ronald,  if  captured, 
would  declare  his  innocence  and  gladly  respond  to  his 
overture  of  help.  But,  instead  of  doing  so,  Ronald  had 
taken  up  an  attitude  which  was  suspicious  in  the  highest 
degree,  and  one  which  caused  the  detective  to  falter  in 
his  belief  that  the  Glenthorpe  murder  case  was  a  much 
deeper  mystery  than  the  police  imagined.  Ronald's  atti- 
tude, by  its  accordance  with  the  facts  previously  known 
or  believed  about  the  case,  belittled  the  detective's  own 
discoveries,  and  caused  him  to  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  was  hardly  worth  while  to  go  farther  into  it. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  in  a  perplexed  and  puzzled  state 
of  mind  that  he  returned  to  Durrington,  and  his  per- 
plexity was  not  lessened  by  a  piece  of  information  given 
to  him  at  luncheon  by  Sir  Henry.  The  specialist  started 
up  from  his  seat  as  soon  as  he,  saw  the  detective,  and 
made  his  way  across  to  his  table. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  burst  out,  "I  have  the  most  amaz- 
ing piece  of  news.  Who  do  you  think  this  chap  Ronald 
turns  out  to  be?  None  other  than  James  Ronald  Pen- 
reath,  only  son  of  Sir  James  Penreath — Penreath  of 
Twelvetrees — one  of  the  oldest  families  in  England,  dat- 

148 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  149 

ing  back  before  the  Conquest!  Not  very  much  money, 
but  very  good  blood — none  better  in  England,  in  fact. 
The  family  seat  is  in  Berkshire,  and  the  family  take  their 
name  from  a  village  near  Reading,  where  a  battle  was 
fought  in  800  odd  between  the  Danes  and  Saxons  under 
Ethel wulf.  You  won't  get  a  much  older  ancestry  than  that. 
Sir  James  married  the  daughter  of  Sir  William  Shirley, 
the  member  for  Carbury,  Cheshire — her  family  was  not 
so  good  as  his,  but  an  honourable  county  family,  never- 
theless. This  young  man  is  their  only  child.  A  nice 
disgrace  he's  brought  on  the  family  name,  the  foolish 
fellow !" 

"Who  told  you  this?"  asked  Colwyn. 

"Superintendent  Galloway  told  me  last  night.  The  de- 
scription of  the  young  man  was  published  in  the  London 
press  in  order  to  assist  his  capture,  and  it  appears  it  was 
seen  by  the  young  lady  to  whom  he  is  affianced,  Miss 
Constance  Willoughby,  who  is  at  present  in  London,  en- 
gaged in  war  work.  I  have  never  met  Miss  Willoughby, 
but  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Hugh  Brewer,  with  whom  she  is 
staying  at  Lancaster  Gate,  is  well-known  to  me.  She  is 
an  immensely  wealthy  woman,  who  devotes  her  life  to 
public  works,  and  moves  in  the  most  exclusive  philan- 
thropic circles.  The  young  lady  was  terribly  distressed 
at  the  similarity  of  details  in  the  description  of  the 
wanted  man  and  that  of  her  betrothed,  particularly  the 
scar  on  the  cheek.  Although  she  could  not  believe  they 
referred  to  Mr.  Penreath,  she  deemed  it  advisable  to 
communicate  with  the  Penreath  family  solicitor,  Mr. 
Oakham,  of  Oakham  and  Pendules. 

"Mr.  Oakham  called  up  Superintendent  Galloway  on 
the  trunk  line  yesterday,  to  make  inquiries,  and  shortly 
afterwards  the  news  came  through  of  Ronald's  arrest. 
Superintendent  Galloway  was  rather  perturbed  at  learn- 


150  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

ing  that  the  arrested  man  resembled  the  description  of 
the  heir  of  one  of  the  oldest  baronetcies  in  England,  and 
sought  me  to  ask  my  advice.  As  he  rather  vulgarly  put 
it,  he  was  scared  at  having  flushed  such  high  game,  and 
he  thought,  in  view  of  my  professional  connection  with 
some  of  the  highest  families  in  the  land,  that  I  might 
be  able  to  give  him  information  which  would  save  him 
from  the  possibility  of  making  a  mistake — if  such  a  pos- 
sibility existed." 

"Superintendent  Galloway  did  not  seem  much  worried 
by  any  such  fears  the  last  time  I  saw  him,"  said  Colwyn. 
"His  one  idea  then  was  to  catch  Ronald  and  hang  him 
as  speedily  as  possible." 

"The  case  wears  another  aspect  now,"  replied  Sir 
Henry  gravely,  oblivious  of  the  irony  in  the  detective's 
tones.  "To  arrest  a  nobody  named  Ronald  is  one  thing, 
but  to  arrest  the  son  of  Penreath  of  Twelvetrees  is  quite 
a  different  matter.  The  police — quite  rightly,  in  my 
opinion — wish  to  guard  against  the  slightest  possibility 
of  mistake." 

"There  is  no  certainty  that  Ronald  is  the  son  of  Sir 
James  Penreath,"  said  Colwyn  thoughtfully.  "Printed 
descriptions  of  people  are  very  misleading." 

"Exactly  my  contention,"  replied  Sir  Henry  eagerly. 
"I  told  Galloway  that  the  best  way  to  settle  the  point  was 
to  let  the  young  lady  see  the  prisoner.  The  police  are 
acting  on  the  suggestion.  Mr.  Oakham  is  coming  down 
with  Miss  Willoughby  and  her  aunt  from  London  by 
the  afternoon  train.  They  will  go  straight  to  Heath- 
field,  where  they  will  see  Ronald  before  his  removal  to 
Norwich  gaol.  Superintendent  Galloway  is  driving  over 
from  here  in  a  taxicab  to  meet  them  at  the  station  and 
escort  them  to  the  lock-up,  and  I  am  going  with  him.  It 
is  a  frightful  ordeal  for  two  highly-strung  ladies  to  have 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  151 

to  undergo,  and  my  professional  skill  may  be  needed  to 
help  them  through  with  it.  I  shall  suggest  that  they 
return  here  with  me  afterwards,  and  stay  for  the  night 
at  the  hotel,  instead  of  returning  to  London  immediately. 
The  night's  rest  will  serve  to  recuperate  their  systems 
after  the  worry  and  excitement." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Colwyn,  who  began  to  see  how  Sir 
Henry  Durwood  had  built  up  such  a  flourishing  practice 
as  a  ladies'  specialist. 

Sir  Henry,  having  imparted  his  information,  promised 
to  acquaint  him  with  the  result  of  the  afternoon's  inter- 
view, and  bustled  out  of  the  breakfast  room  in  response 
to  the  imperious  signalling  of  his  wife's  eye. 

It  was  after  dinner  that  evening,  in  the  lounge,  that 
Sir  Henry  again  approached  Colwyn,  smoking  a  cigar, 
which  represented  the  amount  of  a  medical  man's  fee 
in  certain  London  suburbs.  But  as  Sir  Henry  counted 
his  fees  in  guineas,  and  not  in  half-crowns,  he  could 
afford  to  be  luxurious  in  his  smoking.  He  took  a  seat 
beside  the  detective  and,  turning  upon  him  his  profession- 
ally portentous  "all  is  over"  face,  remarked: 

"There  is  no  mistake.  Ronald  is  Sir  James  Penreath's 
son." 

"Miss  Willoughby  identified  him,  then  ?" 

"It  was  a  case  of  mutual  identification.  Mr.  Penreath, 
to  give  him  his  proper  name,  was  brought  under  escort 
into  the  room  where  we  were  seated.  He  started  back 
at  the  sight  of  Miss  Willoughby — I  suppose  he  had  no 
idea  whom  he  was  going  to  see — and  said,  'Why,  Con- 
stance !'  The  poor  girl  looked  up  at  him  and  exclaimed, 
'Oh,  James,  how  could  you?'  and  burst  into  a  flood  of 
tears.  It  was  a  very  painful  scene." 

"I  have  no  doubt  it  was — for  all  concerned,"  was  Col- 
wyn's  dry  comment.  "Why  did  Miss  Willoughby  greet 


152  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

her  betrothed  husband  in  that  way,  as  though  she  were 
convinced  of  his  guilt?  What  does  she  know  about  the 
case?" 

"Superintendent  Galloway  prepared  her  mind  for  the 
worst  during  the  ride  from  the  station  to  the  gaol.  She 
asked  him  a  number  of  questions,  and  he  told  her  that 
there  was  no  doubt  that  the  man  she  was  going  to  see 
was  the  man  who  had  murdered  Mr.  Glenthorpe." 

"I  suspected  as  much.  But  what  else  transpired  during 
the  interview?  How  did  Penreath  receive  Miss  Wil- 
loughby's  remark?" 

"Most  peculiarly.  He  seemed  about  to  speak,  then 
checked  himself  with  a  half  smile,  looked  down  on  the 
ground,  and  said  no  more.  Superintendent  Galloway 
signed  to  the  policemen  to  remove  him,  and  we  withdrew. 
The  interview  did  not  last  more  than  a  minute  or  so." 

"Miss  Willoughby  did  not  see  him  alone,  then?" 

"No.  Galloway  told  her  that  she  would  not  be  per- 
mitted to  see  him  alone." 

"And  nothing  more  was  said  on  either  side  while  Pen- 
reath was  in  the  room?" 

"Nothing.  Penreath's  attitude  struck  me  as  that  of 
a  man  who  did  not  wish  to  speak.  He  appeared  self- 
conscious  and  confused,  like  a  man  with  a  secret  to 
hide." 

"Perhaps  his  silence  was  due  to  pride.  After  Miss 
Willoughby's  tactless  remark  he  may  have  thought  there 
was  no  use  saying  anything  when  his  sweetheart  believed 
him  guilty."  Colwyn  spoke  without  conviction ;  the  mem- 
ory of  Penreath's  demeanour  to  him  after  his  arrest  was 
too  fresh  in  his  mind. 

"You  wrong  Miss  Willoughby.  She  is  only  too 
anxious  to  catch  at  any  straw  of  hope.  When  she  learnt 
that  you  had  been  making  some  investigations  into  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  153 

case  she  expressed  an  anxiety  to  see  you.  She  and  her  aunt 
yielded  to  my  advice,  and  returned  here  to  spend  the  night 
at  the  hotel  before  going  back  to  London.  As  they  did 
not  feel  inclined  to  face  the  ordeal  of  public  scrutiny 
after  the  events  of  the  day  they  are  dining  in  private, 
and  they  have  asked  me  to  take  you  to  their  room  when 
you  are  at  liberty.  Mr.  Oakham  has  gone  to  Norwich, 
where  he  will  stay  for  some  days  to  prepare  the  defence 
of  this  unhappy  young  man,  but  he  is  coming  here  in  the 
morning  to  see  the  ladies  before  they  depart  for  London. 
He  asked  me  to  tell  you  that  he  would  like  to  see  you 
also." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him,  and  Miss  Willoughby  as 
well.  Have  the  ladies  asked  you  your  opinion  of  the 
case?" 

"Naturally  they  did.  I  gave  them  the  best  comfort  I 
could  by  hinting  that  in  my  opinion  Mr.  Penreath  is  not 
in  a  state  of  mind  at  present  in  which  he  can  be  held 
responsible  for  his  actions.  I  did  not  say  anything  about 
epilepsy — the  word  is  not  a  pleasant  one  to  use  before 
ladies." 

"Did  you  tell  them  this  in  front  of  Galloway  ?" 

"Certainly  not.  A  professional  man  in  my  position 
cannot  be  too  careful.  I  am  glad  now  that  I  was  so 
circumspect  about  this  matter  in  my  dealings  with  the 
police — very  glad  indeed.  It  was  my  duty  to  tell  Mr. 
Oakham,  and  I  did  so.  He  was  interested  in  what  I  told 
him — exceedingly  so,  and  was  anxious  to  know  if  I  had 
given  my  opinion  of  Penreath's  condition  to  anybody  else. 
I  mentioned  that  I  had  told  you — in  confidence." 

"And  it  was  then,  no  doubt,  that  Mr.  Oakham  said  he 
would  like  to  see  me.  I  fancy  I  gather  his  drift.  And 
now  shall  we  visit  Miss  Willoughby?" 

"Yes,  I  should  say  the  ladies  will  be  expecting  us," 


154  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

said  Sir  Henry,  looking  at  a  fat  watch  with  jewelled 
hands  which  registered  golden  minutes  for  him  in  Harley 
Street.  He  beckoned  a  waiter,  and  asked  him  to  conduct 
them  to  Mrs.  Brewer's  sitting-room.  The  waiter  led 
them  along  a  corridor  on  the  first  floor,  tapped  deferen- 
tially, opened  the  door  noiselessly  in  response  to  a  femi- 
nine injunction  to  "come  in,"  waited  for  the  gentlemen  to 
enter,  and  then  closed  the  door  behind  them. 

Two  ladies  rose  to  greet  them.  One  was  small  and 
overdressed,  with  fluffy  hair  and  China  blue  eyes.  She 
carried  some  knitting  in  her  hand,  and  a  pet  dog  under 
her  arm.  Colwyn  had  no  difficulty  in  identifying  her 
with  the  frequent  photographs  of  Mrs.  Brewer  which  ap- 
peared in  Society  and  illustrated  papers.  She  belonged 
to  a  class  of  women  who  took  advantage  of  the  war  to 
advertise  themselves  by  philanthropic  benefactions  and 
war  work,  but  she  was  able  to  distance  most  of  her  com- 
petitors for  newspaper  notoriety  by  reason  of  her  wealth. 
Her  niece,  Miss  Constance  Willoughby,  was  of  a  differ- 
ent type.  She  was  tall  and  graceful,  with  dark  eyes  and 
level  brows.  A  straight  nose  and  a  firm  chin  indicated 
that  their  possessor  was  not  lacking  in  a  will  of  her  own. 
Her  manner  was  self-possessed  and  assured — a  trifle  too 
much  so  for  a  sensitive  girl  in  the  circumtances,  Colwyn 
thought.  Then  he  remembered  having  read  in  some 
paper  that  Miss  Willoughby  was  one  of  the  leaders  of  the 
new  feminist  movement  which  believed  that  the  war  had 
brought  about  the  compkte  emancipation  of  English 
womanhood,  and  with  it  the  right  to  possess  and  display 
those  qualities  of  character  which  hitherto  were  supposed 
to  be  peculiarly  masculine.  It  was  perhaps  owing  to  her 
advocacy  of  these  claims  that  Miss  Willoughby  felt  her- 
self called  upon  to  display  self-possession  and  self-con- 
trol at  a  trying  time.  Colwyn,  appraising  her  with  his 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  155 

clear  eye  as  Sir  Henry  introduced  him,  found  himself 
speculating  as  to  the  reasons  which  had  caused  Penreath 
and  her  to  fall  in  love  with  one  another. 

"Please  sit  down,  Mr.  Colwyn,"  said  Mrs.  Brewer,  re- 
suming a  comfortable  arm-chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  and 
adjusting  the  Pekingese  on  her  lap.  "I  am  so  grateful 
to  you  for  coming  to  see  us  in  this  unconventional  way.  I 
have  been  so  anxious  to  see  you !  Everybody  has  heard 
of  you,  Mr.  Colwyn — you're  so  famous.  It  was  only  the 
other  day  that  I  was  reading  a  long  article  about  you  in 
some  paper  or  other.  I  forget  the  name  of  the  paper,  but 
I  remember  that  it  said  a  lot  of  flattering  things  about 

you  and  your  discoveries  in  crime.  It  said Oh,  you 

naughty,  naughty  Jellicoe."  This  to  the  dog,  which  had 
become  entangled  in  the  skein  of  wool  on  her  lap,  and 
was  making  frantic  efforts  to  free  itself.  "Bad  little 
doggie,  you've  ruined  this  sock,  and  some  poor  soldier 
will  have  to  go  with  bare  feet  because  you've  been 
naughty!  Are  you  a  judge  of  Pekingese,  Mr.  Colwyn? 
Don't  you  think  Jellicoe  a  dear?" 

"Do  you  mean  Sir  John  Jellicoe,  Mrs.  Brewer?" 

"Of  course  not!  I  mean  my  Pekingese.  I've  named 
him  after  our  great  gallant  commander,  because  it  is 
through  him  we  are  all  able  to  sleep  safe  and  sound  in 
our  beds  these  dreadful  nights." 

"Sir  John  Jellicoe  ought  to  feel  flattered,"  said  Colwyn 
gravely. 

"Yes,  I  really  think  he  should,"  replied  Mrs.  Brewer 
innocently.  "Jellicoe  is  not  a  pretty  name  for  a  dog, 
but  I  think  we  should  all  be  patriotic  just  now.  But  tell 
me  what  you  think  of  this  dreadful  case,  Mr.  Colwyn. 
I  am  so  frightfully  distressed  about  it  that  I  really  don't 
know  what  to  do.  How  could  Mr.  Penreath  do  such  a 
shocking  thing?  Why  didn't  he  go  back  to  the  front,  if 


156  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

he  had  to  kill  somebody,  instead  of  hiding  away  from 
everybody  and  murdering  this  poor  old  man  in  this  wild 
spot?  Such  a  disgrace  to  us  all !" 

"Mr.  Penreath  has  been  in  the  Army,  then?"  asked 
Colwyn. 

"Of  course.  Didn't  you  know?  He  was  in  Mesopo- 
tamia, but  was  sent  to  the  West  Front  recently,  where  he 
won  the  D.S.O.  for  an  act  of  great  gallantry  under  heavy 
fire,  but  was  shortly  afterwards  invalided  out  of  the 
Army.  It  was  in  all  the  papers  at  the  time." 

"You  forget,  my  dear  lady,  that  Mr.  Penreath  did  not 
disclose  his  full  name  while  he  was  staying  here,"  inter- 
posed Sir  Henry  solemnly.  "I  myself  was  in  complete 
ignorance  of  his  identity  till  last  night." 

"Why,  of  course — you  told  me  this  afternoon.  My 
poor  head !  Whatever  induced  Mr.  Penreath  to  do  such 
a  thing  as  to  conceal  his  name  ?  So  common  and  vulgar ! 
What  motive  could  he  have?  What  do  you  think  his 
motive  was,  Mr.  Colwyn?" 

"I  think,  Aunt  Florence,  as  your  nerves  are  bad,  that 
you  had  better  permit  me  to  talk  to  Mr.  Colwyn,"  said 
Miss  Willoughby,  speaking  for  the  first  time.  "Other- 
wise we  shall  get  into  a  worse  tangle  than  the  Pekingese." 

"I  am  sure  I  shall  be  only  too  relieved  if  you  will  talk 
to  Mr.  Colwyn,"  rejoined  the  elder  woman.  "My  head 
is  really  not  equal  to  the  task — my  nerves  are  so  fright- 
fully unstrung." 

Mrs.  Brewer  returned  to  the  task  of  untangling  the 
dog  from  the  knitting  wool,  and  the  girl  faced  the  detec- 
tive earnestly. 

"Mr.  Colwyn,"  she  said,  "I  understand  you  have  been 
investigating  this  terrible  affair.  Will  you  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  it?  Do  you  believe  that  Mr.  Penreath  is 
guilty  ?  You  need  not  fear  to  be  frank  with  me." 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  157 

"I  will  not  hesitate  to  be  so.  I  shall  be  pleased  to  give 
you  my  conclusions  about  this  case — so  far  as  I  have 
formed  any — but  I  should  be  greatly  obliged  if  you 
would  answer  a  few  questions  first.  That  might  help  me 
to  clear  up  one  or  two  points  on  which  I  am  at  present  in 
doubt,  and  make  my  statement  to  you  clearer." 

"Ask  me  any  questions  you  wish." 

"Thank  you.  In  the  first  place,  how  long  is  it  since 
Mr.  Penreath  returned  from  the  front,  invalided  out  of 
the  Army?" 

"About  two  months  ago." 

"Was  he  wounded?" 

"No.  I  understand  that  he  broke  down  through  shell- 
shock,  and  the  doctors  said  that  it  would  be  some  time 
before  he  completely  recovered.  I  do  not  know  the  de- 
tails. Mr.  Penreath  was  very  sensitive  and  reticent  about 
the  matter,  and  so  I  forbore  questioning  him." 

Colwyn  nodded  sympathetically. 

"I  understand.  Have  you  noticed  much  difference  in 
his  demeanour  since  he  returned  from  the  front?" 

"That  question  is  a  little  difficult  to  answer,"  said  the 
girl,  hesitating. 

"I  can  quite  understand  how  you  feel  about  it.  My 
motive  in  asking  the  question  is  to  see  if  we  can  ascer- 
tain why  Penreath  came  to  Norfolk  under  a  concealed 
name,  and  then  wandered  over  to  this  place,  Flegne,  in 
an  almost  penniless  condition,  when  he  had  plenty  of 
friends  who  would  have  supplied  his  needs,  and,  I  should 
say,  had  money  of  his  own  in  the  bank,  for  it  is  quite 
certain  that  he  would  be  in  receipt  of  an  allowance  from 
his  father.  He  acted  most  unusually  for  a  young  man 
of  his  standing  and  position,  and  I  am  wondering  if  shell- 
shock  let  him  in  that  restless,  unsettled,  reckless  condi- 
tion which  is  one  of  its  worst  effects." 


158  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"I  have  seen  so  little  of  him  since  he  returned  from 
the  front  that  it  is  difficult  for  me  to  answer  you,"  said 
the  girl,  after  a  pause.  "He  went  down  to  Berkshire  to 
his  father's  place  on  his  return,  and  stayed  there  a 
month.  Then  he  came  to  London,  and  we  met  several 
times,  but  rarely  alone.  I  am  very  deeply  engaged  in  war 
work,  and  was  unable  to  give  him  much  of  my  time. 
When  I  did  see  him  he  struck  me  as  rather  moody  and 
distrait,  but  I  put  that  down  to  his  illness,  and  the  fact 
that  he  must  naturally  feel  unhappy  at  his  forced  inaction. 
My  friends  paid  him  much  attention  and  sent  him  many 
invitations — in  fact,  they  would  have  made  quite  a  fuss 
of  him  if  he  had  let  them — and,  of  course,  he  had  friends 
of  his  own,  but  he  didn't  seem  to  want  to  go  anywhere, 
and  he  told  me  once  or  twice  that  he  wished  people  would 
let  him  alone.  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  he  had  his  duty 
to  do  in  Society  as  well  as  at  the  front,  but  he  said  he 
disliked  Society,  particularly  in  war-time.  About  three 
weeks  ago  he  told  me  one  night  at  a  dance  that  he  was 
sick  of  London,  and  thought  he  would  be  better  for  a 
change  of  air.  He  was  looking  rather  pale,  and  I  agreed 
he  would  be  the  better  for  a  change.  I  asked  him  where 
he  intended  going,  and  he  said  he  thought  he  would  try 
the  east  coast — he  didn't  say  what  part.  He  left  me  with 
the  intention  of  going  away  the  next  day.  That  was  the 
last  I  saw  of  him — until  to-day." 

"You  got  no  letter  from  him?" 

"I  have  not  heard  from  him — or  of  him — until  I  saw 
his  description  published  in  the  London  newspapers  as 
that  of  a  criminal  wanted  by  the  police." 

Miss  Willoughby  uttered  the  last  sentence  in  some  bit- 
terness, with  a  sparkle  of  resentment  in  her  eyes.  It  was 
apparent  that  she  considered  she  had  been  badly  treated 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  159 

by  her  lover,  and  that  his  arrest  had  hardened,  instead  of 
softening,  her  feelings  of  resentment. 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  answering  my  questions, 
Miss  Willoughby,"  said  the  detective.  "As  I  told  you 
before,  they  are  not  dictated  by  curiosity,  but  in  the  hope 
of  eliciting  some  information  which  would  throw  light  on 
this  puzzling  case." 

"A  puzzling  case!  You  consider  it  a  puzzling  case, 
Mr.  Colwyn?"  She  glanced  at  him  with  a  more  eager 
and  girlish  expression  than  he  had  yet  seen  on  her  face. 
"I  understood  from  the  police  officer  that  there  was  no 
room  for  doubt  in  the  matter.  Sir  Henry  Durwood 
shares  the  police  view."  She  turned  a  swift  questioning 
glance  in  the  specialist's  direction. 

Sir  Henry  caught  the  glance,  and  felt  it  incumbent 
upon  himself  to  utter  a  solemn  commonplace. 

"I  beg  of  you  not  to  raise  false  hopes  in  Miss  Will- 
oughby's  breast,  Mr.  Colwyn,"  he  said. 

"I  have  no  intention  of  doing  so,"  returned  the  detec- 
tive. "On  the  other  hand,  I  protest  against  everybody  con- 
demning Penreath  until  it  is  certain  he  is  guilty.  And 
now,  Miss  Willoughby,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  dis- 
covered." 

He  entered  upon  a  brief  account  of  his  investigations 
at  the  inn,  with  the  exception  that  he  omitted  the  visit 
of  Peggy  to  the  murdered  man's  chamber  and  her  subse- 
quent explanation.  Miss  Willoughby  listened  attentively, 
and,  when  he  had  concluded,  remarked: 

"Do  you  think  the  wax  and  tallow  candle-grease 
dropped  in  the  room  suggests  the  presence  of  two  per- 
sons?" 

"I  feel  sure  that  it  does." 

"And  who  do  you  think  the  other  was?" 

"It  is  not  yet  proved  that  Penreath  was  one  of  them." 


160  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

She  flushed  under  the  implied  reproof,  and  hurriedly 
added : 

"Have  you  acquainted  the  police  with  your  discoveries, 
Mr.  Colwyn?" 

"I  have,  and  I  am  bound  to  say  that  they  attach  very 
little  importance  to  them." 

"Do  you  propose  to  go  any  further  with  your  investi- 
gations ?" 

"I  would  prefer  not  to  answer  that  question  until  I 
have  seen  Mr.  Oakham  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WHEN  Colwyn  went  in  to  lunch  the  following  day 
after  a  walk  on  the  front,  he  found  Sir  Henry  awaiting 
him  in  the  lounge  with  a  visitor  whose  identity  the  de- 
tective guessed  before  Sir  Henry  introduced  him. 

"This  is  Mr.  Oakham,"  said  Sir  Henry.  "I  have  told 
him  of  your  investigation  into  this  painful  case  which  has 
brought  him  to  Norfolk." 

"An  investigation  in  which  you  helped,"  said  Colwyn, 
with  a  smile. 

"I  am  afraid  it  would  be  stretching  the  fable  of  the 
mouse  and  the  lion  to  suggest  that  I  was  able  to  help 
such  a  renowned  criminal  investigator  as  yourself,"  re- 
turned Sir  Henry  waggishly.  "When  Mr.  Oakham  learnt 
that  you  had  been  investigating  this  case  lie  expressed  a 
strong  desire  to  see  you." 

"I  am  returning  to  London  by  the  afternoon  express, 
Mr.  Colwyn,"  said  the  solicitor.  "I  should  be  glad  if 
you  could  spare  me  a  little  of  your  time  before  I  go." 

"Certainly,"  replied  Colwyn,  courteously.  "It  had  bet- 
ter be  at  once,  had  it  not?  You  have  not  very  much 
time  at  your  disposal." 

"If  it  does  not  inconvenience  you,"  replied  Mr.  Oak- 
ham  politely.  "But  your  lunch " 

"That  can  wait,"  said  the  detective.  "I  feel  deeply 
interested  in  this  case  of  young  Penreath." 

"Mr.  Oakham  saw  him  this  morning  before  coming 
over,"  said  Sir  Henry.  "He  is  quite  mad,  and  refuses  to 

161 


162  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

say  anything.  Therefore,  we  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion  " 

"Really,  Sir  Henry,  you  shouldn't  have  said  that."  Mr. 
Oakham's  tone  was  both  shocked  and  expostulatory. 

"Why  not  ?"  retorted  Sir  Henry  innocently.  "Mr.  Col- 
wyn  knows  all  about  it — I  told  him  myself.  I  thought 
you  wanted  him  to  help  you  ?" 

"I  am  aware  of  that,  but,  my  dear  sir,  this  is  an  ex- 
tremely delicate  and  difficult  business.  As  Mr.  Pen- 
reath's  professional  adviser,  I  must  beg  of  you  to  exer- 
cise more  reticence." 

"Then  I  had  better  go  and  have  my  lunch  while  you 
two  have  a  chat,"  said  Sir  Henry  urbanely,  "or  I  shall 
only  be  putting  my  foot  in  it  again.  Mr.  Oakham,  I 
shall  see  you  before  you  go."  Sir  Henry  moved  off  in 
the  direction  of  the  luncheon  room. 

"Perhaps  you  will  come  to  my  sitting-room,"  said 
Colwyn  to  Mr.  Oakham.  "We  can  talk  quietly  there." 

"Thank  you,"  responded  Mr.  Oakham,  and  he  went 
with  the  detective  upstairs. 

Mr.  Oakham,  of  Oakham  and  Pendules,  Temple  Gar- 
dens, was  a  little  white-haired  man  of  seventy,  attired  in 
the  sombre  black  of  the  Victorian  era,  with  a  polished 
reticent  manner  befitting  the  senior  partner  of  a  firm  of 
solicitors  owning  the  most  aristocratic  practice  in  Eng- 
land ;  a  firm  so  eminently  respectable  that  they  never  ren- 
dered a  bill  of  costs  to  a  client  until  he  was  dead,  when 
the  amount  of  legal  expenses  incurred  during  his  life- 
time was  treated  as  a  charge  upon  the  family  estate,  and 
deducted  from  the  moneys  accruing  to  the  next  heir, 
who,  in  his  turn,  was  allowed  to  run  his  allotted  course 
without  a  bill  from  Oakham  and  Pendules.  They  were  a 
discreet  and  dignified  firm,  as  ancient  as  some  of  the 
names  whose  family  secrets  were  locked  away  in  their 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  163 

office  deed  boxes,  and  reputed  to  know  more  of  the  inner 
history  of  the  gentry  in  Burke's  Peerage  than  all  the 
rest  of  the  legal  profession  put  together. 

The  arrest  of  the  only  son  of  Sir  James  Penreath,  of 
Twelvetrees,  Berks,  on  a  charge  of  murder,  had  shocked 
Mr.  Oakham  deeply.  Divorces  had  come  his  way  in 
plenty,  though  he  remembered  the  day  when  they  were 
considered  scandalous  in  good  families.  But  the  mod- 
ern generation  had  changed  all  that,  and  Mr.  Oakham 
had  since  listened  to  so  many  stories  of  marital  wrongs, 
and  had  assisted  in  obtaining  so  many  orders  for  resti- 
tution of  conjugal  rights,  that  he  had  come  to  regard 
divorce  as  fashionable  enough  to  be  respectable.  He 
was  intimately  versed  in  most  human  failings  and  follies, 
and  a  past  master  in  preventing  their  consequences  com- 
ing to  light.  Financial  embarrassments  he  was  well  used 
to — they  might  almost  be  said  to  be  his  forte — for  many 
of  his  clients  had  more  lineage  than  money,  but  the 
crime  of  murder  was  a  thing  outside  his  professional 
experience. 

The  upper  classes  of  the  present  generation  had,  in 
this  respect  at  least,  improved  on  the  morals  of  their 
freebooting  ancestors,  and  murder  had  gone  so  com- 
pletely out  of  fashion  among  the  aristocracy  that  Mr. 
Oakham  had  never  been  called  upon  to  prepare  the  de- 
fence of  a  client  charged  with  killing  a  fellow  creature. 
Mr.  Oakham  regarded  murder  as  an  ungentlemanly 
crime.  He  believed  that  no  gentleman  would  commit 
murder  unless  he  were  mad.  Since  his  arrival  in  Nor- 
folk he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  young  Penreath 
was  not  only  mad,  but  that  he  had  committed  the  murder 
with  which  he  stood  charged.  Sir  Henry  Durwood  had 
been  responsible  for  the  first  opinion,  and  the  police  had 
helped  him  to  form  the  second.  Two  interviews  he  had 


164  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

had  with  his  client  since  his  arrest  had  strengthened  and 
deepened  both  convictions. 

It  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  that  Mr.  Oakham  seated 
himself  in  the  detective's  sitting  room.  He  accepted  a 
cigar  from  Colwyn's  case,  and  looked  amiably  at  his 
companion,  who  waited  for  him  to  speak.  The  inter- 
view had  been  of  the  solicitor's  seeking,  and  it  was  for 
him  to  disclose  his  object  in  doing  so. 

"This  is  a  very  unfortunate  case,  Mr.  Colwyn,"  the 
solicitor  remarked. 

"Yes;  it  seems  so,"  replied  Colwyn. 

"I  am  afraid  there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  this 
unhappy  young  man  has  committed  this  murder." 

"You  have  arrived  at  that  conclusion?" 

"It  is  impossible  to  arrive  at  any  other  conclusion,  in 
view  of  the  evidence." 

"It  is  purely  circumstantial.  I  thought  that  perhaps 
Penreath  would  have  some  statement  to  make  which 
would  throw  a  different  light  on  the  case." 

"I  will  be  frank  with  you,  Mr.  Colwyn,"  said  the 
solicitor.  "You  are  acquainted  with  all  the  facts  of  the 
case,  and  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  help  us.  Penreath's 
attitude  is  a  very  strange  one.  Apparently  he  does  not 
apprehend  the  grave  position  in  which  he  stands.  I  am 
forced  to  the  conclusion  that  he  is  suffering  from  an 
unhappy  aberration  of  the  intellect,  which  has  led  to 
his  committing  this  crime.  His  conduct  since  coming  to 
Norfolk  has  not  been  that  of  a  sane  man.  He  has  hid- 
den himself  away  from  his  friends,  and  stayed  here 
under  a  false  name.  I  understand  that  he  behaved  in 
an  eccentric  and  violent  way  in  the  breakfast  room  of 
this  hotel  on  the  morning  of  the  day  he  left  for  the 
place  where  the  murder  was  subsequently  committed." 

"You  have  learnt  this  from  Sir  Henry,  I  presume?" 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  165 

"Yes.  Sir  Henry  has  conveyed  to  me  his  opinion, 
based  on  his  observation  of  Mr.  Penreath's  eccentricity 
at  the  breakfast  table  the  last  morning  of  his  stay  here, 
that  Mr.  Penreath  is  an  epileptic,  liable  to  attacks  of 
furor  epileplicus — a  phase  of  the  disease  which  some- 
times leads  to  outbreaks  of  terrible  violence.  He 
thought  it  advisable  that  I  should  know  this  at  once,  in 
view  of  what  has  happened  since.  Sir  Henry  informed 
me  that  he  confided  a  similar  opinion  to  you,  as  you  were 
present  at  the  time,  and  assisted  him  to  convey  Penreath 
upstairs.  May  I  ask  what  opinion  you  formed  of  his 
behaviour  at  the  breakfast  table,  Mr.  Colwyn?" 

"I  thought  he  was  excited — nothing  more." 

"But  the  violence,  Mr.  Colwyn!  Sir  Henry  Durwood 
says  Penreath  was  about  to  commit  a  violent  assault  on 
the  people  at  the  next  table  when  he  interfered." 

"The  violence  was  not  apparent — to  me,"  returned  the 
detective,  who  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  disclose  his 
secret  belief  that  Sir  Henry  had  acted  hastily.  "Apart 
from  the  excitement  he  displayed  on  this  particular 
morning,  Penreath  seemed  to  me  a  normal  and  average 
young  Englishman  of  his  class.  I  certainly  saw  no  signs 
of  insanity  about  him.  It  occurred  to  me  at  the  time 
that  his  excitement  might  be  the  outcome  of  shell-shock. 
We  had  had  an  air  raid  two  nights  before,  and  some 
shell-shock  cases  are  badly  affected  by  air  raids.  I  have 
since  been  informed  that  Penreath  was  invalided  out  of 
the  Army  recently,  suffering  from  shell-shock." 

"In  Sir  Henry's  opinion  the  shell-shock  has  aggravated 
a  tendency  to  the  disease." 

"Has  Penreath  ever  shown  any  previous  signs  of  epi- 
lepsy?" 

"Not  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  but  his  mother  developed 
the  disease  in  later  years,  and  ultimately  died  from  it. 


166  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

Her  illness  was  a  source  of  great  worry  and  anxiety  to 
Sir  James.  And  epilepsy  is  hereditary." 

"Pathologists  differ  on  that  point.  I  know  something 
of  the  disease,  and  I  doubt  whether  Penreath  is  an  epi- 
leptic. He  showed  none  of  the  symptoms  which  I  have 
always  associated  with  epilepsy." 

"An  eminent  specialist  like  Sir  Henry  is  hardly  likely 
to  be  mistaken.  The  fact  that  Penreath  seemed  a  sane 
and  collected  individual  to  your  eye  proves  nothing. 
Epileptic  attacks  are  intermittent,  and  the  sufferer  may 
appear  quite  sane  between  the  attacks.  Epilepsy  is  a 
remarkable  disease.  A  latent  tendency  to  it  may  exist 
for  years  without  those  nearest  and  dearest  to  the  suf- 
ferer suspecting  it,  so  Sir  Henry  says.  Penreath's  case 
is  a  very  strange  and  sad  one." 

"It  is  a  strange  case  in  every  way,"  said  Colwyn  ear- 
nestly. "Why  should  a  young  man  like  Ronald  go  over 
to  this  remote  Norfolk  village,  where  he  had  never  been 
before,  and  murder  an  old  man  whom  he  had  never  seen 
previously?  The  police  theory  that  this  murder  was 
committed  for  the  sake  of  £300  which  the  victim  had 
drawn  out  of  the  bank  that  day  seems  incredible  to  me, 
in  the  case  of  a  young  man  like  Penreath." 

"The  only  way  of  accounting  for  the  whole  unhappy 
business  is  on  Sir  Henry's  hypothesis  that  Penreath  is 
mad.  In  acute  epileptic  mania  there  are  cases  in  which 
there  is  a  seeming  calmness  of  conduct,  and  these  are  the 
most  dangerous  of  all.  The  patient  walks  about  like  a 
man  in  a  dream,  impelled  by  a  force  which  he  cannot 
resist,  and  does  all  sorts  of  things  without  conscious  pur- 
pose. He  will  take  long  walks  to  places  he  has  never 
seen,  will  steal  money  or  valuables,  and  commit  murder 
or  suicide  with  apparent  coolness  and  cunning.  Sir 
Henry  describes  this  as  automatic  action,  and  he  says 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  167 

that  it  is  a  notable  characteristic  of  the  form  of  epileptic 
mania  from  which  Penreath  is  suffering.  You  will  ob- 
serve that  these  symptoms  fit  in  with  all  the  facts  of  the 
case  against  Penreath.  The  facts,  unfortunately,  are  so 
clear  that  there  is  no  gainsaying  them." 

"It  seems  so  now,"  said  Colwyn  thoughtfully.  "Yet, 
when  I  was  investigating  the  facts  yesterday,  I  came 
across  several  points  which  seemed  to  suggest  the  possi- 
bility of  an  alternative  theory  to  the  police  theory." 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  those  points  are." 

"I  will  tell  you." 

The  detective  proceeded  to  set  forth  the  result  of  his 
visit  to  the  inn,  and  the  solicitor  listened  to  him  with 
close  attention.  When  he  had  finished  Mr.  Oakham  re- 
marked : 

"I  am  afraid  there  is  not  much  in  these  points,  Mr. 
Colwyn.  Your  suggestion  that  there  were  two  persons 
in  the  murdered  man's  room  is  interesting,  but  you  have 
no  evidence  to  support  it.  The  girl's  explanation  of  her 
visit  to  the  room  is  probably  the  true  one.  Far  be  it 
from  me,  as  Penreath's  legal  adviser,  to  throw  away  the 
slightest  straw  of  hope,  but  your  conjectures — for,  to 
my  mind,  they  are  nothing  more — are  nothing  against  the 
array  of  facts  and  suspicious  circumstances  which  have 
been  collected  by  the  police.  And  even  if  the  police  case 
were  less  strong,  there  is  another  grave  fact  which  we 
cannot  overlook." 

"You  mean  that  Penreath  refuses  to  say  anything?" 
said  Colwyn. 

"He  appears  to  be  somewhat  indifferent  to  the  out- 
come," returned  the  lawyer  guardedly. 

"It  is  his  silence  which  baffles  me,"  said  Colwyn.  "I 
saw  him  alone  after  his  arrest,  and  told  him  I  was  willing 
to  help  him  if  he  could  tell  me  anything  which  would 


168  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

assist  me  to  establish  his  innocence — if  he  were  innocent. 
He  replied  that  he  had  nothing  to  say." 

"What  you  tell  me  deepens  my  conviction  that  Pen- 
reath  does  not  realise  the  position  in  which  he  is  placed, 
and  cannot  be  held  accountable  for  his  actions." 

"Is  it  your  intention  to  plead  mental  incapacity  at  the 
trial?" 

"Sir  Henry  Durwood  has  offered  to  give  evidence  that, 
in  his  opinion,  Penreath  is  not  responsible  for  his  actions. 
The  Penreath  family  is  under  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  Sir 
Henry.  I  consider  it  little  short  of  providential  that  Sir 
Henry  was  staying  here  at  the  time."  Like  most  law- 
yers, Mr.  Oakham  had  a  firm  belief  in  the  interposition 
of  Providence — particularly  in  the  affairs  of  the  families 
of  the  great.  "And  that  is  the  reason  for  my  coming 
over  here  to  see  you  this  morning,  Mr.  Colwyn.  You 
were  present  at  the  breakfast  table  scene — you  witnessed 
this  young  man's  eccentricity  and  violence.  The  Pen- 
reath family  is  already  under  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  you 
— will  you  increase  the  obligation  ?  In  other  words,  will 
you  give  evidence  in  support  of  the  defence  at  the  trial  ?" 

"You  want  me  to  assist  you  in  convincing  the  jury  that 
Penreath  is  a  criminal  lunatic,"  said  Colwyn.  "That  is 
what  your  defence  amounts  to.  It  is  a  grave  responsi- 
bility. Doctors  and  specialists  are  sometimes  mistaken, 
you  know." 

"I  am  afraid  there  is  very  little  doubt  in  this  case. 
Here  is  a  young  man  of  birth  and  breeding,  who  hides 
from  his  friends  under  an  assumed  name,  behaves  in 
public  in  an  eccentric  manner,  is  turned  out  of  his  hotel, 
goes  to  a  remote  inn,  and  disappears  before  anybody  is 
up.  The  body  of  a  gentleman  who  occupied  the  room 
next  to  him  is  subsequently  discovered  in  a  pit  close  by, 
and  the  footprints  leading  to  the  pit  are  those  of  our 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  169 

young  friend.  The  young  man  is  subsequently  arrested 
close  to  the  place  where  the  body  was  thrown,  and  not 
then,  or  since,  has  he  offered  his  friends  any  explanation 
of  his  actions.  In  the  circumstances,  therefore,  I  shall 
avail  myself  of  Sir  Henry's  evidence.  In  my  own  mind 
— from  my  own  observation  and  conversation  with  Pen- 
reath — I  am  convinced  that  he  cannot  be  held  responsible 
for  his  actions.  In  view  of  the  tremendously  strong  case 
against  him,  in  view  of  his  peculiar  attitude  to  you — and 
others — in  the  face  of  accusation,  and  in  view  of  his 
previous  eccentric  behaviour,  I  shall  take  the  only  pos- 
sible course  to  save  the  son  of  Penreath  of  Twelvetrees 
from  the  gallows.  I  had  hoped,  Mr.  Colwyn,  that  you, 
who  witnessed  the  scene  at  this  hotel,  and  subsequently 
helped  Sir  Henry  Durwood  convey  this  unhappy  young 
man  upstairs,  would  see  your  way  clear  to  support  Sir 
Henry's  expert  opinion  that  this  young  man  is  insane. 
Your  reputation  and  renown  would  carry  weight  with 
the  jury." 

"I  am  sorry,  but  I  am  afraid  you  must  do  without 
me,"  replied  Colwyn.  "In  view  of  Penreath's  silence  I 
can  come  to  no  other  conclusion,  though  against  my  bet- 
ter judgment,  than  that  he  is  guilty,  but  I  cannot  take 
upon  myself  the  responsibility  of  declaring  that  he  is  in- 
sane. In  spite  of  Sir  Henry  Durwood's  opinion,  I  can- 
not believe  that  he  is,  or  was.  It  will  be  a  difficult  de- 
fence to  establish  in  the  case  of  Penreath.  If  you  wish 
the  jury  to  say  that  Penreath  is  the  victim  of  what 
French  writers  call  epilepsie  larvee,  in  which  an  outbreak 
of  brutal  or  homicidal  violence  takes  the  place  of  an 
epileptic  fit,  with  a  similar  break  in  the  continuity  of  con- 
sciousness, you  will  first  have  to  convince  the  judge  that 
Penreath's  preceding  fits  were  so  slight  as  to  permit  the 
possibility  of  their  being  overlooked,  and  you  will  also 


170  THE  SHRIEKING  FIT 

have  to  establish  beyond  doubt  that  the  break  in  his  con- 
sciousness existed  from  the  time  of  the  scene  in  the 
hotel  breakfast-room  until  the  time  the  murder  was 
committed.  The  test  of  that  state  is  the  unintelligent 
character  of  some  of  the  acts  of  the  sufferer.  In  my 
opinion,  a  defence  of  insanity  is  not  likely  to  be  success- 
ful. Personally,  I  shall  go  no  further  in  the  case,  but 
I  cannot  give  up  my  original  opinion  that  the  whole  of 
the  facts  in  this  case  have  not  been  brought  to  light. 
Probably  they  never  will  be — now." 


CHAPTER  XV 

ALTHOUGH  no  hint  of  the  defence  was  supposed  to 
transpire,  the  magic  words  "No  precedent"  were  whis- 
pered about  in  legal  circles  as  the  day  for  Penreath's  trial 
approached,  and  invested  the  case  with  more  than  or- 
dinary interest  in  professional  eyes.  Editors  of  London 
legal  journals  endeavoured  to  extract  something  definite 
from  Mr.  Oakham  when  he  returned  to  London  to  brief 
counsel  and  prepare  the  defence,  but  the  lunches  they 
lavished  on  him  in  pursuit  of  information  might  have 
been  spent  with  equal  profit  on  the  Sphinx. 

The  editors  had  to  content  themselves  with  sending 
shorthand  writers  to  Norwich  to  report  the  case  fully  for 
the  benefit  of  their  circle  of  readers,  whose  appetite  for 
a  legal  quibble  was  never  satiated  by  repetition. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  case  aroused  but  languid  inter- 
est in  the  breasts  of  the  ordinary  public.  The  news- 
papers had  not  given  the  story  of  the  murder  much 
prominence  in  their  columns,  because  murders  were  only 
good  copy  in  war-time  in  the  slack  season  between  mili- 
tary offensives,  and,  moreover,  this  particular  case  lacked 
the  essentials  of  what  modern  editors  call,  in  American 
journalese  jargon,  "a  good  feature  story."  In  other 
words,  it  was  not  sufficiently  sensational  or  immoral  to 
appeal  to  the  palates  of  newspaper  readers.  It  lacked 
the  spectacular  elements  of  a  filmed  drama;  there  was  no 
woman  in  the  case  or  unwritten  law. 

It  was  true  that  the  revelation  of  the  identity  of  the 
accused  man  had  aroused  a  passing  interest  in  the  case, 

171 


I72  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

bringing  it  up  from  paragraph  value  on  the  back  page  to 
a  "two-heading  item"  on  the  "splash"  page,  but  that  in- 
terest soon  died  away,  for,  after  all,  the  son  of  a  Berk- 
shire baronet  was  small  beer  in  war's  levelling  days, 
when  peers  worked  in  overalls  in  munition  factories,  and 
personages  of  even  more  exalted  rank  sold  pennyworths 
of  ham  in  East-end  communal  kitchens. 

Nevertheless,  because  of  the  perennial  interest  which 
attaches  to  all  murder  trials,  the  Norwich  Assizes  Court 
was  filled  with  spectators  on  the  dull  drizzling  November 
day  when  the  case  was  heard,  and  the  fact  that  the  ac- 
cused was  young  and  good-looking  and  of  gentle  birth 
probably  accounted  for  the  sprinkling  of  well-dressed 
women  amongst  the  audience.  The  younger  ones  eyed 
him  with  sympathy  as  he  was  brought  into  the  dock :  his 
good  looks,  his  blue  eyes,  his  air  of  breeding,  his  well-cut 
clothes,  appealed  to  their  sensibilities,  and  if  they  had 
been  given  the  opportunity  they  would  have  acquitted 
him  without  the  formality  of  a  trial  as  far  "too  nice  a 
boy"  to  have  committed  murder. 

To  the  array  of  legal  talent  assembled  together  by  the 
golden  wand  of  Costs  the  figure  of  the  accused  man  had 
no  personal  significance  but  the  actual  facts  at  issue 
entered  as  little  into  their  minds  as  into  the  pitying  hearts 
of  the  female  spectators.  The  accused  had  no  individual 
existence  so  far  as  they  were  concerned :  he  was  merely 
a  pawn  in  the  great  legal  game,  of  which  the  lawyers 
were  the  players  and  the  judge  the  referee,  and  the  side 
which  won  the  pawn  won  the  game.  As  this  particular 
game  represented  an  attack  on  the  sacred  tradition  of 
Precedent,  both  sides  had  secured  the  strongest  profes- 
sional intellects  possible  to  contest  the  match,  and  the 
lesser  legal  fry  of  Norwich  had  gathered  together  to  wit- 
ness the  struggle,  and  pick  up  what  points  they  could. 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  173 

The  leader  for  the  prosecution  was  Sir  Herbert  Tem- 
plewood,  K.C.,  M.P.,  a  political  barrister,  with  a  Society 
wife,  a  polished  manner,  and  a  deadly  gift  of  cross- 
examination.  With  him  was  Mr.  Grover  Braecroft,  a 
dour  Scotch  lawyer  of  fifty-five,  who  was  currently  be- 
lieved to  know  the  law  from  A  to  Z,  and  really  had  an 
intimate  acquaintance  with  those  five  letters  which  made 
up  the  magic  word  Costs.  Apart  from  this  valuable 
knowledge,  he  was  a  cunning  and  crafty  lawyer,  picked 
in  the  present  case  to  supply  the  brains  to  Sir  Herbert 
Templewood's  brilliance,  and  do  the  jackal  work  which 
the  lion  disdained.  The  pair  were  supported  by  a  Crown 
Solicitor  well  versed  in  precedents — a  little  prim  figure 
of  a  man  who  sat  with  so  many  volumes  of  judicial  de- 
cisions and  reports  of  test  cases  piled  in  front  of  him 
that  only  the  upper  portion  of  his  grey  head  was  visible 
above  the  books. 

The  defence  relied  mainly  upon  Mr.  Reginald  Middle- 
heath,  the  eminent  criminal  counsel,  who  depended  as 
much  upon  his  portly  imposing  stage  presence  to  bluff 
juries  into  an  acquittal  as  upon  his  legal  attainments, 
which  were  also  considerable.  Mr.  Middleheath's  card- 
inal article  of  legal  faith  was  that  all  juries  were  fools, 
and  should  be  treated  as  such,  because  if  they  once  got 
the  idea  into  their  heads  that  they  knew  something  about 
the  case  they  were  trying  they  were  bound  to  convict  in 
order  to  sustain  their  reputation  for  intelligence.  One 
of  Mr.  Middleheath's  favourite  tricks  for  disabusing  a 
jury  of  the  belief  that  they  possessed  any  common  sense 
was,  before  addressing  them,  to  stare  each  juryman  in 
the  face  for  half  a  minute  or  so  in  turn  with  his  piercing 
penetrative  eyes,  accompanying  the  look  with  a  pitying 
contemptuous  smile,  the  gaze  and  the  smile  implying  that 
counsel  for  the  opposite  side  may  have  flattered  them 


174  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

into  believing  that  their  intelligences  were  fit  to  try  such 
an  intricate  case,  but  they  couldn't  deceive  him. 

Having  robbed  the  jury  of  their  self-esteem  by  this 
means,  Mr.  Middleheath  would  proceed  to  put  them  on 
good  terms  with  themselves  again  by  insinuating  in  per- 
suasive tones  that  the  case  was  one  calculated  to  perplex 
the  most  astute  legal  brain.  He  frankly  confessed  that 
it  had  perplexed  him  at  first,  but  as  he  had  mastered  its 
intricacies  the  jury  were  welcome  to  his  laboriously  ac- 
quired knowledge  in  order  to  help  them  in  arriving  at  a 
right  decision.  Mr.  Middleheath's  junior  was  Mr. 
Garden  Greyson,  a  thin  ascetic  looking  lawyer  whose 
knowledge  of  medical  jurisprudence  had  brought  him  his 
brief  in  the  case.  Mr.  Oakham  sat  beside  Mr.  Greyson 
with  various  big  books  in  front  of  him. 

The  judge  was  Mr.  Justice  Redington,  whose  presence 
on  the  bench  was  always  considered  a  strengthening 
factor  in  the  Crown  case.  Judges  differ  as  much  as  or- 
dinary human  beings,  and  are  as  human  in  their  peculiari- 
ties as  the  juries  they  direct  and  the  prisoners  they  try. 
There  are  good-tempered  and  bad-tempered  judges, 
harsh  and  tender  judges,  learned  and  foolish  judges, 
there  are  even  judges  with  an  eye  to  self-advertisement, 
and  a  few  wise  ones.  Mr.  Justice  Redington  belonged  to 
that  class  of  judges  who,  while  endeavouring  to  hold  the 
balance  fairly  between  the  Crown  and  the  defence,  see 
to  it  that  the  accused  does  not  get  overweight  from  the 
scales  of  justice.  Such  judges  take  advantage  of  their 
judicial  office  by  cross-examining  witnesses  for  the  de- 
fence after  the  Crown  Prosecutor  has  finished  with  them, 
in  the  effort  to  bring  to  light  some  damaging  fact  or 
contradiction  which  the  previous  examination  has  failed 
to  elicit.  In  other  respects,  Mr.  Justice  Redington  was 
a  very  fair  judge,  and  he  worked  as  industriously  as  any 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  175 

newspaper  reporter,  taking  extensive  notes  of  all  his 
cases  with  a  gold  fountain  pen,  which  he  filled  himself 
from  one  of  the  court  inkstands  whenever  it  ran  dry. 
In  appearance  he  was  a  florid  and  pleasant  looking  man, 
and  his  hobby  off  the  bench  was  farming  his  own  land 
and  breeding  prize  cattle. 

There  were  the  usual  preliminaries,  equivalent  to  the 
clearing  of  the  course  or  the  placing  of  the  pieces,  which 
bored  the  regular  habitues  of  the  court  but  whetted  the 
appetites  of  the  more  unsophisticated  spectators.  First 
there  was  the  lengthy  process  of  empanelling  a  jury,  with 
the  inevitable  accompaniment  of  challenges  and  objec- 
tions, until  the  most  unintelligent  looking  dozen  of  the 
panel  finally  found  themselves  in  the  jury  box.  Then 
the  Clerk  of  Arraigns  gabbled  over  the  charges:  wilful 
murder  of  Roger  Glenthorpe  on  26th  October,  1916,  and 
feloniously  stealing  from  the  said  Roger  Glenthorpe  the 
sum  of  £300  on  the  same  date.  To  these  charges  the 
accused  man  pleaded  "Not  guilty"  in  a  low  voice.  The 
jury  were  directed  on  the  first  indictment  only,  and  Sir 
Herbert  Templewood  got  up  to  address  the  jury. 

Sir  Herbert  knew  very  little  about  the  case,  but  his 
junior  was  well  informed;  and  what  Mr.  Braecroft 
didn't  know  he  got  from  the  Crown  Solicitor,  who  sat 
behind  the  barristers'  table,  ready  to  lean  forward  at  the 
slightest  indication  and  supply  any  points  which  were 
required.  Under  this  system  of  spoon-feeding  Sir  Her- 
bert ambled  comfortably  along,  reserving  his  showy 
paces  for  the  cross-examination  of  witnesses  for  the 
defence. 

Sir  Herbert  commenced  by  describing  the  case  as  a 
straightforward  one  which  would  offer  no  difficulty  to 
an  intelligent  jury.  It  was  true  that  it  rested  on  circum- 
stantial evidence,  but  that  evidence  was  of  the  strongest 


176  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

nature,  and  pointed  so  clearly  in  the  one  direction,  that 
the  jury  could  come  to  no  other  conclusion  than  that  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar  had  committed  the  murder  with  which 
he  stood  charged. 

With  this  preamble,  the  Crown  Prosecutor  proceeded 
to  put  together  the  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence 
against  the  accused  with  the  deliberate  logic  of  the  kgal 
brain,  piecing  together  incidents,  interpreting  clues,  prob- 
ing motives,  and  fashioning  together  the  whole  tremen- 
dous apparatus  of  circumstantial  evidence  with  the  intent 
air  of  a  man  building  an  unbreakable  cage  for  a  wild 
beast.  As  Colwyn  had  anticipated,  the  incident  at  the 
Durrington  hotel  had  been  dropped  from  the  Crown 
case.  That  part  of  the  presentment  was  confined  to  the 
statement  that  Penreath  had  registered  at  the  hotel  under 
a  wrong  name,  and  had  left  without  paying  his  bill.  The 
first  fact  suggested  that  the  accused  had  something  to 
hide,  the  second  established  a  motive  for  the  subsequent 
murder. 

Sir  Herbert  Templewood  concluded  his  address  in 
less  than  an  hour,  and  proceeded  to  call  evidence  for  the 
prosecution.  There  were  nine  witnesses:  that  strangely 
assorted  pair,  the  innkeeper  and  Charks,  the  deaf  waiter, 
Ann,  the  servant,  the  two  men  who  had  recovered  Mr. 
Glenthorpe's  body  from  the  pit,  the  Heathfield  doctor, 
who  testified  as  to  the  cause  of  death,  Superintendent 
Galloway,  who  gave  the  court  the  result  of  the  joint  in- 
vestigations of  the  chief  constable  and  himself  at  the 
inn,  Police-Constable  Queensmead,  who  described  the 
arrest  and  Inspector  Fredericks,  of  Norwich,  who  was 
in  charge  of  the  Norwich  station  when  the  accused  was 
taken  there  from  Flegne.  In  order  to  save  another  wit- 
ness being  called,  Counsel  for  the  defence  admitted  that 
accused  had  registered  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  Durrington, 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  177 

under  a  wrong  name,  and  left  without  paying  his  bill. 

Mr.  Middleheath  cross-examined  none  of  the  witnesses 
for  the  prosecution  except  the  last  one,  and  his  forensic 
restraint  was  placed  on  record  by  the  depositions  clerk 
in  the  exact  words  of  the  unvarying  formula  between 
bench  and  bar.  "Do  you  ask  anything,  Mr.  Middle- 
heath  ?"  Mr.  Justice  Redington  would  ask,  with  punctili- 
ous politeness,  when  the  Crown  Prosecutor  sat  down 
after  examining  a  witness.  To  which  Mr.  Middleheath 
would  reply,  in  tones  of  equal  courtesy :  "I  ask  nothing, 
my  lord."  Counsel's  cross-examination  of  Inspector 
Fredericks  consisted  of  two  questions,  intended  to  throw 
light  on  the  accused's  state  of  mind  after  his  arrest.  In- 
spector Fredericks  declared  that  he  was,  in  his  opinion, 
quite  calm  and  rational. 

Mr.  Middleheath's  opening  address  to  the  jury  for  the 
defence  was  brief,  and,  to  sharp  legal  ears,  vague  and 
unconvincing.  Although  he  pointed  out  that  the  evidence 
was  purely  circumstantial,  and  that  in  the  absence  of 
direct  testimony  the  accused  was  entitled  to  the  benefit 
of  any  reasonable  doubt,  he  did  not  attempt  to  controvert 
the  statements  of  the  Crown  witnesses,  or  suggest  that 
the  Crown  had  not  established  its  case.  His  address, 
combined  with  the  fact  that  he  had  not  cross-examined 
any  of  the  Crown  witnesses,  suggested  to  the  listening 
lawyers  that  he  had  either  a  very  strong  defence  or  none 
at  all.  The  point  was  left  in  suspense  for  the  time  being 
by  Mr.  Justice  Redington  suggesting  that,  in  view  of 
the  lateness  of  the  hour,  Counsel  should  defer  calling 
evidence  for  the  defence  until  the  following  day.  As  a 
judicial  suggestion  is  a  command,  the  court  was  ad- 
journed accordingly,  the  judge  first  warning  the  jury  not 
to  try  to  come  to  any  conclusion,  or  form  an  opinion  as 


i;8  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

to  what  their  verdict  should  be,  until  they  had  heard  the 
evidence  for  the  prisoner. 

When  the  case  was  continued  next  day  the  first  witness 
called  for  the  defence  was  Dr.  Robert  Greydon,  an 
elderly  country  practitioner  with  the  precise  professional 
manner  of  a  past  medical  generation,  who  stated  that  he 
practised  at  Twelvetrees,  Berkshire,  and  was  the  family 
doctor  of  the  Penreath  family.  In  reply  to  Mr.  Middle- 
heath  he  stated  that  he  had  frequently  attended  the  late 
Lady  Penreath,  the  mother  of  accused,  for  fits  or  seizures 
from  which  she  suffered  periodically,  and  that  the  Lon- 
don specialist  who  had  been  called  into  consultation  on 
one  occasion  had  agreed  with  him  that  the  seizures  were 
epileptic. 

"I  want  to  give  every  latitude  to  the  defence,"  said  Sir 
Herbert  Templewood,  rising  in  dignified  protest,  "but  I 
am  afraid  I  cannot  permit  this  conversation  to  go  in. 
My  learned  friend  must  call  the  London  specialist  if  he 
wants  to  get  it  in." 

"I  will  waive  the  point  as  my  learned  friend  objects," 
said  Mr.  Middleheath,  satisfied  that  he  had  "got  it  in" 
the  jury's  ears,  "and  content  myself  with  asking  Dr. 
Greydon  whether,  from  his  own  knowledge,  Lady  Pen- 
reath suffered  from  epilepsy." 

"Undoubtedly,"  replied  the  witness. 

"One  moment,"  said  the  judge,  looking  up  from  his 
notes.  "Where  is  this  evidence  tending,  Mr.  Middle- 
heath?" 

"My  lord,"  replied  Mr.  Middleheath  solemnly,  "I  wish 
the  court  to  know  all  the  facts  on  which  we  rely." 

The  judge  bowed  his  head  and  waved  his  gold  foun- 
tain-pen as  an  indication  that  the  examination  might  pro- 
ceed. The  witness  said  that  Lady  Penreath  was  un- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  179 

doubtedly  an  epileptic,  and  suffered  from  attacks  extend- 
ing over  twenty  years,  commencing  when  her  only  son 
was  five  years  old,  and  continuing  till  her  death  ten  years 
ago.  For  some  years  the  attacks  were  slight,  without 
convulsions,  but  ultimately  the  grand  mal  became  well 
developed,  and  several  attacks  in  rapid  succession  ulti- 
mately caused  her  death.  In  the  witness's  opinion  epi- 
lepsy was  an  hereditary  disease,  frequently  transmitted 
to  the  offspring,  if  either  or  both  parents  suffered 
from  it. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  any  signs  of  epilepsy  in  Lady 
Penreath's  son — the  prisoner  at  the  bar?"  asked  Sir 
Herbert,  who  began  to  divine  the  direction  of  the  de- 
fence. 

"Never,"  replied  the  witness. 

"Was  he  under  your  care  in  his  infancy  and  boyhood? 
I  mean  were  you  called  in  to  attend  to  his  youthful  ail- 
ments?" 

"Yes,  until  he  went  to  school." 

"And  was  he  a  normal  and  healthy  boy?" 

"Quite." 

"Did  you  see  him  when  he  returned  home  recently?" 
asked  Mr.  Middleheath,  rising  to  re-examine. 

"Yes." 

"You  are  aware  he  was  discharged  from  the  Army 
suffering  from  shell-shock?" 

"Yes." 

"And  did  you  notice  a  marked  change  in  him?" 

"Very  marked  indeed.  He  struck  me  as  odd  and  for- 
getful at  times,  and  sometimes  he  seemed  momentarily  to 
lose  touch  with  his  surroundings.  He  used  to  be  very 
bright  and  good-tempered,  but  he  returned  from  the  war 
irritable  and  moody,  and  very  silent,  disliking,  above  all 
things,  to  be  questioned  about  his  experiences  at  the 


i8o  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

front  He  used  to  be  the  very  soul  of  courtesy,  but 
when  he  returned  from  the  front  he  refused  to  attend  a 
'welcome  home'  at  the  village  church  and  hear  the  vicar 
read  a  congratulatory  address." 

"I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  advance  the  latter  inci- 
dent as  a  proof  of  non  compos  mentis,  ,Mr.  Middleheath," 
said  the  judge  facetiously. 

In  the  ripples  of  mirth  which  this  judicial  sally 
aroused,  the  little  doctor  was  permitted  to  leave  the  box, 
and  depart  for  his  native  obscurity  of  Twelvetrees.  He 
had  served  his  purpose,  so  far  as  Mr.  Middleheath  was 
concerned,  and  Sir  Herbert  Templewood  was  too  good 
a  sportsman  to  waste  skilful  flies  on  such  a  small  fish, 
which  would  do  no  honour  to  his  bag  if  hooked. 

Sir  Herbert  Templewood  and  every  lawyer  in  court 
were  by  now  aware  that  the  defence  were  unable  to  meet 
the  Crown  case,  but  were  going  to  fight  for  a  verdict  of 
insanity.  The  legal  fraternity  realised  the  difficulties  of 
that  defence  in  a  case  of  murder.  It  would  be  necessary 
not  only  to  convince  the  jury  that  the  accused  did  not 
know  the  difference  between  right  and  wrong,  but  to 
convince  the  judge,  in  the  finer  legal  interpretation  of 
criminal  insanity,  that  the  accused  did  not  know  the  na- 
ture of  the  act  he  was  charged  with  committing,  in  the 
sense  that  he  was  unable  to  distinguish  whether  it  was 
right  or  wrong  at  the  moment  of  committing  it.  The 
law,  which  assumes  that  a  man  is  sane  and  responsible 
for  his  acts,  throws  upon  the  defence  the  onus  of  prov- 
ing otherwise,  and  proving  it  up  to  the  hilt,  before  it 
permits  an  accused  person  to  escape  the  responsibility  of 
his  acts.  Such  a  defence  usually  resolves  itself  into  a 
battle  between  medical  experts  and  the  counsel  engaged, 
the  Crown  endeavouring  to  upset  the  medical  evidence 
for  the  defence  with  medical  evidence  in  rebuttal. 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  181 

The  lawyers  in  court  settled  back  with  a  new  enjoy- 
ment at  the  prospect  of  the  legal  and  medical  hair-spilt- 
ting  and  quibbling  which  invariably  accompanies  an  en- 
counter of  this  kind,  and  Crown  Counsel  and  solicitors 
displayed  sudden  activity.  Sir  Herbert  Templewood 
and  Mr.  Braecroft  held  a  whispered  consultation,  and 
then  Mr.  Braecroft  passed  a  note  to  the  Crown  Solicitor, 
who  hurried  from  the  court  and  presently  returned 
carrying  a  formidable  pile  of  dusty  volumes,  which  he 
placed  in  front  of  junior  counsel.  The  most  uninter- 
ested person  in  court  seemed  the  man  in  the  dock,  who 
sat  looking  into  a  vacancy  with  a  bored  expression  on 
his  handsome  face,  as  if  he  were  indifferent  to  the  fight 
on  which  his  existence  depended. 

The  next  witness  was  Miss  Constance  Willoughby, 
who  gave  her  testimony  in  low  clear  tones,  and  with  per- 
fect self-possession.  It  was  observed  by  the  feminine 
element  in  court  that  she  did  not  look  at  her  lover  in  the 
dock,  but  kept  her  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  Mr.  Middle- 
heath.  Her  story  was  a  straightforward  and  simple 
one.  She  had  become  engaged  to  Mr.  Penreath  shortly 
before  the  war,  and  had  seen  him  several  times  since  he 
was  invalided  out  of  the  Army.  The  last  occasion  was 
a  month  ago,  when  he  called  at  her  aunt's  house  at 
Lancaster  Gate.  She  had  noticed  a  great  change  in  him 
since  his  return  from  the  front.  He  was  moody  and 
depressed.  She  did  not  question  him  about  his  illness, 
as  she  thought  he  was  out  of  spirits  because  he  had  been 
invalided  out  of  the  Army,  and  did  not  want  to  talk 
about  it.  He  told  her  he  intended  to  go  away  for  a 
change  until  he  got  right  again — he  had  not  made  up  his 
mind  where,  but  he  thought  somewhere  on  the  East 
Coast,  where  it  was  cool  and  bracing,  would  suit  him 
best — and  he  would  write  to  her  as  soon  as  he  got  settled 


182  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

anywhere.  She  did  not  see  him  again,  and  did  not  hear 
from  him  or  know  anything  of  his  movements  till  she 
read  his  description  in  a  London  paper  as  that  of  a  man 
wanted  by  the  Norfolk  police  for  murder.  Her  aunt, 
who  showed  her  the  paper,  communicated  with  the  Pen- 
reaths'  solicitor,  Mr.  Oakham.  The  following  day  she 
and  her  aunt  were  taken  to  Heathfield  and  identified  the 
accused. 

"Your  aunt  took  action  to  allay  your  anxiety,  I  under- 
stand?" said  Mr.  Heathfield,  whose  watchful  eye  had 
noted  the  unfavourable  effect  of  this  statement  on  the 
jury. 

The  witness  bowed. 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "I  was  terribly  anxious,  as  I  had 
not  heard  from  Mr.  Penreath  since  he  went  away.  Any- 
thing was  better  than  the  suspense." 

"You  say  accused  was  moody  and  depressed  when  you 
saw  him  ?"  asked  Sir  Herbert  Templewood. 

"Yes." 

"May  I  take  it  that  there  was  nothing  terrifying  in 
his  behaviour — nothing  to  indicate  that  he  was  not  in  his 
right  mind?" 

"No,"  replied  the  witness  slowly.  "He  did  not 
frighten  me,  but  I  was  concerned  about  him.  He  cer- 
tainly looked  ill,  and  I  thought  he  seemed  a  little  strange." 

"As  though  he  had  something  on  his  mind?"  suggested 
Sir  Herbert. 

"Yes,"  assented  the  witness. 

"Were  you  aware  that  the  accused,  when  he  went  to 
see  you  at  your  aunt's  home  before  he  departed  for  Nor- 
folk, was  very  short  of  money?" 

"I  was  not.     If  I  had  known " 

"You  would  have  helped  him — is  that  what  you  were 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  183 

going  to  say?"  asked  Mr.  Middleheath,  as  Sir  Herbert 
resumed  his  seat  without  pursuing  the  point 

"My  aunt  would  have  helped  Mr.  Penreath  if  she  had 
known  he  was  in  monetary  difficulties." 

"Thank  you."  Mr.  Middleheath  sat  down,  pulling  his 
gown  over  his  shoulders. 

The  witness  was  leaving  the  stand  when  the  sharp  au- 
thoritative voice  of  the  judge  stopped  her. 

"Wait  a  minute,  please,  I  want  to  get  this  a  little 
clearer.  You  said  you  were  aware  that  the  accused  was 
discharged  from  the  Army  suffering  from  shell-shock. 
Did  he  tell  you  so  himself?" 

"No,  my  lord.    I  was  informed  so.'* 

"Really,  Mr.  Middleheath " 

The  judge's  glance  at  Counsel  for  the  Defence  was  so 
judicial  that  it  brought  Mr.  Middleheath  hurriedly  to  his 
feet  again. 

"My  lord,"  he  explained,  "I  intend  to  prove  in  due 
course  that  the  prisoner  was  invalided  out  of  the  Army 
suffering  from  shell-shock." 

"Very  well."  The  judge  motioned  to  the  witness  that 
she  was  at  liberty  to  leave  the  box. 

The  appearance  of  Sir  Henry  Durwood  in  the  box  as 
the  next  witness  indicated  to  Crown  Counsel  that  the 
principal  card  for  the  defence  was  about  to  be  played. 
Lawyers  conduct  defences  as  some  people  play  bridge — 
they  keep  the  biggest  trump  to  the  last.  Sir  Henry  rep- 
resented the  highest  trump  in  Mr.  Middleheath's  hand, 
and  if  he  could  not  score  with  him  the  game  was  lost. 

Sir  Henry  seemed  not  unconscious  of  his  importance 
to  the  case  as  he  stepped  into  the  stand  and  bowed  to 
the  judge  with  bland  professional  equality.  His  evi- 
dence-in-chief  was  short,  but  to  the  point,  and  amounted 
to  a  recapitulation  of  the  statement  he  had  made  to 


184  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

Colwyn  in  Penreath's  bedroom  on  the  morning  of  the 
episode  in  the  breakfast-room  of  the  Grand  Hotel, 
Durrington.  Sir  Henry  related  the  events  of  that  morn- 
ing for  the  benefit  of  the  jury,  and  in  sonorous  tones  ex- 
pressed his  professional  opinion  that  the  accused's 
strange  behaviour  on  that  occasion  was  the  result  of  an 
attack  of  epilepsy — petit  mal,  combined  with  furor  epi- 
lepticus. 

The  witness  defined  epilepsy  as  a  disease  of  the 
nervous  system,  marked  by  attacks  of  unconsciousness, 
with  or  without  convulsions.  The  loss  of  consciousness 
with  severe  convulsive  seizures  was  known  as  grand  mal, 
the  transient  loss  of  consciousness  without  convulsive 
seizures  was  called  petit  mal.  Attacks  of  petit  mal  might 
come  on  at  any  time,  and  were  usually  accompanied  by 
a  feeling  of  faintness  and  vertigo.  The  general  symp- 
toms were  sudden  jerkings  of  the  limbs,  sudden  tremors, 
giddiness  and  unconsciousnes.  The  eyes  became  fixed, 
the  face  slightly  pale,  sometimes  very  red,  and  there  was 
frequently  some  almost  automatic  action.  In  grand  mal 
there  was  always  warning  of  an  attack,  in  petit  mal  there 
was  no  warning  as  a  rule,  but  sometimes  there  was  pre- 
monitory giddiness  and  restlessness.  Furor  epilepticus 
was  a  medical  term  applied  to  the  violence  displayed 
during  attacks  of  petit  mal,  a  violence  which  was  much 
greater  than  extreme  anger,  and  under  its  influence  the 
subject  was  capable  of  committing  the  most  violent  out- 
rages, even  murder,  without  being  conscious  of  the  act. 

"There  is  no  doubt  in  your  mind  that  the  accused  man 
had  an  attack  of  petit  mal  in  the  breakfast-room  of  the 
Durrington  hotel  the  morning  before  the  murder?"  asked 
Mr.  Middleheath. 

"None  whatever.  All  the  symptoms  pointed  to  it.  He 
was  sitting  at  the  breakfast  table  when  he  suddenly 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  185 

ceased  eating,  and  his  eyes  grew  fixed.  The  knife  which 
he  held  in  his  hand  was  dropped,  but  as  the  attack  in- 
creased he  picked  it  up  again  and  thrust  it  into  the  table 
in  front  of  him — a  purely  automatic  action,  in  my  opin- 
ion. When  he  sprang  up  from  the  table  a  little  while 
afterwards  he  was  under  the  influence  of  the  epileptic 
fury,  and  would  have  made  a  violent  attack  on  the  people 
sitting  at  the  next  table  if  I  had  not  seized  him.  Uncon- 
sciousness then  supervened,  and,  with  the  aid  of  another 
of  the  hotel  guests,  I  carried  him  to  his  room.  It  was 
there  I  noticed  foam  on  his  lips.  When  he  returned  to 
consciousness  he  had  no  recollection  of  what  had  oc- 
curred, which  is  consistent  with  an  epileptic  seizure.  I 
saw  that  his  condition  was  dangerous,  and  urged  him 
to  send  for  his  friends,  but  he  refused  to  do  so." 

"It  would  have  been  better  if  he  had  followed  your 
advice.  You  say  it  is  consistent  with  epilepsy  for  him 
to  have  no  recollection  of  what  occurred  during  this 
seizure  in  the  hotel  breakfast  room.  What  would  a 
man's  condition  of  mind  be  if,  during  an  attack  of  petit 
mal,  he  committed  an  act  of  violence,  say  murder,  for 
example  ?" 

"The  mind  is  generally  a  complete  blank.  Sometimes 
there  is  a  confused  sense  of  something,  but  the  patient 
has  no  recollection  of  what  has  occurred,  in  my  experi- 
ence." 

"In  this  case  the  prisoner  is  charged  with  murder. 
Could  he  have  committed  this  offence  during  another 
attack  of  furor  epilepticus  and  recollect  nothing  about 
it  afterwards?  Is  that  consistent?" 

"Yes,  quite  consistent,"  replied  the  witness. 

"Is  epilepsy  an  hereditary  disease?" 

"Yes." 

"And  if  both  parents,  or  one  of  them,  suffered  from 


i86  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

epilepsy,  would  there  be  a  great  risk  of  the  children  suf- 
fering from  it?" 

"Every  risk  in  the  case  of  both  persons  being  affected ; 
some  probability  in  the  case  of  one." 

"What  do  you  think  would  be  the  effect  of  shell-shock 
on  a  person  born  of  one  epileptic  parent  ?" 

"It  would  probably  aggravate  a  tendency  to  epilepsy, 
by  lowering  the  general  health." 

"Thank  you,  Sir  Henry." 

Mr.  Middleheath  resumed  his  seat,  and  Sir  Herbert 
Templewood  got  up  to  cross-examine. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SIR  HERBERT  TEMPLEWOOD  did  not  believe  the  evidence 
of  the  specialist,  and  he  did  not  think  the  witness  be- 
lieved in  it  himself.  Sir  Herbert  did  not  think  any  the 
worse  of  the  witness  on  that  account.  It  was  one  of 
the  recognised  rules  of  the  game  to  allow  witnesses  to 
stretch  a  point  or  two  in  favour  of  the  defence  where  the 
social  honour  of  highly  respectable  families  was  in- 
volved. 

Sir  Herbert  saw  in  the  present  defence  the  fact  that 
the  hand  of  his  venerable  friend,  Mr.  Oakham,  had  not 
lost  its  cunning.  Mr.  Oakham  was  a  very  respectable 
solicitor,  acting  for  a  very  respectable  client,  and  he  had 
called  a  very  respectable  Harley  Street  specialist — who, 
by  a  most  fortuitous  circumstance,  had  been  staying  at 
the  same  hotel  as  the  accused  shortly  before  the  murder 
was  committed — to  convince  the  jury  that  the  young  man 
was  insane,  and  that  his  form  of  insanity  was  epilepsy, 
a  disease  which  had  prolonged  lucid  intervals. 

A  truly  ingenious  and  eminently  respectable  defence, 
and  one  which,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  perhaps,  Sir  Her- 
bert might  not  have  been  sorry  to  see  succeed,  for  he 
knew  Sir  James  Penreath  of  Twelvetrees,  and  was  sorry 
to  see  his  son  in  such  a  position.  But  he  had  his  duty  to 
perform,  and  that  duty  was  to  discredit  in  the  eyes  of 
the  jury  the  evidence  of  the  witness  in  the  box,  because 
juries  were  prone  to  look  upon  specialists  as  men  to 
whom  all  things  had  been  revealed,  and  return  a  verdict 
accordingly. 

187 


iS8  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

Sir  Herbert  made  one  mistake  in  his  analysis  of  the 
defence.  Sir  Henry,  at  least,  believed  in  his  own  evi- 
dence and  took  himself  very  seriously  as  a  specialist 
Like  most  stupid  men  who  have  got  somewhere  in  life, 
Sir  Henry  became  self-assertive  under  the  least  sem- 
blance of  contradiction,  and  he  grew  violent  and  red- 
faced  under  cross-examination.  He  would  not  hear  of 
the  possibility  of  a  mistake  in  his  diagnosis  of  the  ac- 
cused's symptoms,  but  insisted  that  the  accused,  when  he 
saw  him  at  the  Durrington  hotel,  was  suffering  from  an 
epileptic  seizure,  combined  with  furor  epilepticus,  and 
was  in  a  state  of  mind  which  made  him  a  menace  to  his 
fellow  creatures.  It  was  true  he  qualified  his  statements 
with  the  words  "so  far  as  my  observation  goes,"  but  the 
qualification  was  given  in  a  manner  which  suggested 
to  the  jury  that  five  minutes  of  Sir  Henry  Durwood's 
observation  were  worth  a  month's  of  a  dozen  ordinary 
medical  men. 

Sir  Henry's  vehement  insistence  on  his  infallibility 
struck  Sir  Herbert  as  a  flagrant  violation  of  the  rules 
of  the  game.  He  did  not  accept  the  protestations  as 
genuine;  he  thought  Sir  Henry  was  overdoing  his  part, 
and  playing  to  the  gallery.  He  grew  nettled  in  his  turn, 
and,  with  a  sudden  access  of  vigour  in  his  tone,  said: 

"You  told  my  learned  friend  that  it  is  quite  consistent 
with  the  prisoner's  malady  that  he  could  have  committed 
the  crime  with  which  he  stands  charged,  and  remember 
nothing  about  it  afterwards.  Is  that  a  fact?" 

"Certainly." 

"In  that  case,  will  you  kindly  explain  how  the  prisoner 
came  to  leave  the  inn  hurriedly,  before  anybody  was  up, 
the  morning  after  the  murder  was  committed?  Why 
should  he  run  away  if  he  had  no  recollection  of  his  act  ?" 

"I  must  object  to  my  learned  friend  describing  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  189 

accused's  departure  from  the  inn  as  'running  away,' " 
said  Mr.  Middleheath,  with  a  bland  smile  of  protest.  "It 
is  highly  improper,  as  nobody  knows  better  than  the 
Crown  Prosecutor,  and  calculated  to  convey  an  alto- 
gether erroneous  impression  on  the  minds  of  the  jury. 
There  is  not  the  slightest  evidence  to  support  such  a 
statement.  The  evidence  is  that  he  saw  the  servant  and 
paid  his  bill  before  departure.  That  is  not  running 
away." 

"Very  well,  I  will  say  hastened  away,"  replied  Sir 
Herbert  impatiently.  "Why  should  the  accused  hasten 
away  from  the  inn  if  he  retained  no  recollection  of  the 
events  of  the  night?" 

"He  may  have  had. a  hazy  recollection,"  replied  Sir 
Henry.  "Not  of  the  act  itself,  but  of  strange  events 
happening  to  him  in  the  night — something  like  a  bad 
dream,  but  more  vivid.  He  may  have  found  something 
unusual — such  as  wet  clothes  or  muddy  boots — for  which 
he  could  not  account.  Then  he  would  begin  to  wonder, 
and  then  perhaps  there  would  come  a  hazy  recollection 
of  some  trivial  detail.  Then,  as  he  came  to  himself,  he 
would  begin  to  grow  alarmed,  and  his  impulse,  as  his 
normal  mind  returned  to  him,  would  be  to  leave  the  place 
where  he  was  as  soon  as  he  could.  This  restlessness  is  a 
characteristic  of  epilepsy.  In  my  opinion,  it  was  this 
vague  alarm,  on  finding  himself  in  a  position  for  which 
he  could  not  account,  which  was  the  cause  of  the  accused 
leaving  the  Durrington  hotel.  His  last  recollection,  as 
he  told  me  at  the  time,  was  entering  the  breakfast-room ; 
he  came  to  his  senses  in  his  bedroom,  with  strangers  in 
the  room." 

"Does  not  recollection  return  completely  in  attacks  of 
petit  mal  ?" 

"Sometimes  it  does;  sometimes  not.     I  remember  a 


190  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

case  in  my  student  days  where  an  epileptic  violently  as- 
saulted a  man  in  the  street — almost  murdered  him  in 
fact — then  assaulted  a  man  who  tried  to  detain  him,  ran 
away,  and  remembered  nothing  about  it  afterwards." 

"Is  it  consistent  with  petit  mal,  combined  with  furor 
epttepticus,  for  a  man  to  commit  murder,  conceal  the 
body  of  his  victim,  and  remember  nothing  about  it  after- 
wards?" 

"Quite  consistent,  though  the  probability  is,  as  I  said 
before,  for  him  to  have  some  hazy  recollection  when  he 
came  to  his  senses,  which  would  lead  to  his  leaving  that 
place  as  quickly  as  he  could." 

"Would  it  be  consistent  with  petit  mal  for  a  man  to 
take  a  weapon  away  beforehand,  and  then,  during  a 
sudden  fit  of  petit  mal,  use  it  upon  the  unfortunate  vic- 
tim?" 

"If  he  took  the  weapon  for  another  purpose,  it  is 
quite  possible  that  he  might  use  it  afterwards." 

"I  should  like  to  have  that  a  little  clearer,"  said  the 
judge,  interposing.  "Do  you  mean  to  get  the  weapon  for 
another,  possibly  quite  innocent  purpose,  and  then  use  it 
for  an  act  of  violence?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  replied  Sir  Henry.  "That  is  quite 
consistent  with  an  attack  of  petit  mal." 

"When  a  man  has  periodical  attacks  of  petit  mal, 
would  it  not  be  possible,  by  observation  of  him  between 
the  attacks,  or  when  he  was  suffering  from  the  attacks, 
to  tell  whether  he  had  a  tendency  to  them  ?" 

"No,  only  in  a  very  few  and  exceptional  cases." 

"In  your  opinion  epilepsy  is  an  hereditary  disease?" 

"Undoubtedly." 

"Are  you  aware  that  certain  eminent  French  special- 
ists, including  Marie,  are  of  the  opinion  that  hereditary 
influences  play  a  very  small  part  in  epilepsy?" 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  191 

"That  may  be."  Sir  Henry  dismissed  the  views  of 
the  French  physicians  with  a  condescending  wave  of  his 
fat  white  hand. 

"That  does  not  alter  your  own  opinion  ?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"And  do  you  say  that  because  this  man's  mother  suf- 
fered from  epilepsy  the  chances  are  that  he  is  suffering 
from  it?" 

"Pardon  me,  I  said  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  think  the 
chances  are  that  he  would  have  a  highly  organised  nerv- 
ous system,  and  would  probably  suffer  from  some 
nervous  disease.  In  the  case  of  the  prisoner,  I  should 
say  that  shell-shock  increased  his  predisposition  to  epi- 
lepsy." 

"Do  you  suggest  that  shell-shock  leads  to  epilepsy  ?" 

"In  general,  no;  in  this  particular  case,  possibly.  A 
man  may  have  shell-shock,  and  injury  to  the  brain,  which 
is  not  necessarily  epileptic." 

"It  is  possible  for  shell-shock  alone  to  lead  to  a  subse- 
quent attack  of  insanity?"  asked  the  judge. 

"It  is  possible — certainly." 

"How  often  do  these  attacks  of  petit  mal  occur?" 
asked  Sir  Herbert. 

"They  vary  considerably  according  to  the  patient — 
sometimes  once  a  week,  sometimes  monthly,  and  there 
have  been  cases  in  which  the  attacks  are  separated  by 
months." 

"Are  not  two  attacks  in  twenty-four  hours  unprece- 
dented?" 

"Unusual,  but  not  unprecedented.  The  excitement  of 
going  from  one  place  to  another,  and  walking  miles  to 
get  there,  would  be  a  predisposing  factor.  Prisoner 
would  have  been  suffering  from  the  effects  of  the  first 
attack  when  he  left  the  Durrington  hotel,  and  the  excite- 


192  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

ment  of  the  change  .and  the  fatigue  of  walking  all  day 
would  have  been-very  prejudicial  to  him,  and  account  for 
the  second  and  more  violent  attack." 

"How  long  do  the  after  effects  last — of  an  attack  of 
petit  mal,  I  mean." 

"It  depends  on  the  violence  of  the  attack.  Some- 
times as  long  as  five  or  six  hours.  The  recovery  is  gener- 
ally attended  with  general  lassitude." 

"There  is  no  evidence  to  show  that  the  prisoner  dis- 
played any  symptoms  of  epilepsy  before  the  attack  which 
you  witnessed  at  the  Durrington  hotel.  Is  it  not  unusual 
for  a  person  to  reach  the  age  of  twenty-eight  or  there- 
abouts without  showing  any  previous  signs  of  a  disease 
like  epilepsy?" 

"There  must  be  a  first  attack — that  goes  without  say- 
ing," interposed  the  judge  testily. 

That  concluded  the  cross-examination.  Mr.  Middle- 
heath,  in  re-examination,  asked  Sir  Henry  whether  foam 
at  the  lips  was  a  distinguishing  mark  of  epilepsy. 

"It  generally  indicates  an  epileptic  tendency/'  replied 
Sir  Henry  Durwood. 

At  the  conclusion  of  Sir  Henry  Durwood's  evidence 
Mr.  Middleheath  called  an  official  from  the  War  Office 
to  prove  formally  that  Lieutenant  James  Penreath  had 
been  discharged  from  His  Majesty's  forces  suffering 
from  shell-shock. 

"I  understand  that,  prior  to  the  illness  which  termi- 
nated his  military  career,  Lieutenant  Penreath  had  won 
a  reputation  as  an  exceedingly  gallant  soldier,  and  had 
been  awarded  the  D.S.O,"  said  Mr.  Middleheath. 

"That  is  so,"  replied  the  witness. 

"Is  that  the  case?"  asked  the  judge. 

"That,  my  lord,  is  the  case,"  replied  Mr.  Middleheath. 

Sir  Herbert  Templewood,  on  behalf  of  the  Crown,  pro- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  193 

ceeded  to  call  rebutting  medical  evidence  to  support  the 
Crown  contention  that  the  accused  was  sane  and  aware 
of  the  nature  of  his  acts.  The  first  witness  was  Dr. 
Henry  Manton,  of  Heathfield,  who  said  he  saw  the  ac- 
cused when  he  was  brought  into  the  station  from  Flegne 
by  Police  Constable  Queensmead.  He  seemed  perfectly 
rational,  though  disinclined  to  talk. 

"Did  you  find  any  symptom  upon  him  which  pointed  to 
his  having  recently  suffered  from  epilepsy  of  any  kind  ?" 
asked  Sir  Herbert. 

"No." 

"Do  you  agree  with  Sir  Henry  Durwood  that  between 
attacks  of  epilepsy  the  patient  would  exhibit  no  signs  of 
the  disease?"  asked  Mr.  Middleheath. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  between  the  attacks?" 

"I  mean  when  he  had  completely  recovered  from  one 
fit  and  before  the  next  came  on,"  explained  counsel. 

"I  quite  agree  with  that,"  replied  the  witness. 

"How  long  does  it  usually  take  for  a  man  to  recover 
from  an  attack  of  epilepsy?" 

"It  depends  on  the  severity  of  the  attack." 

"Well,  take  an  attack  serious  enough  to  cause  a  man 
to  commit  murder." 

"It  may  take  hours — five  or  six  hours.  He  would 
certainly  be  drowsy  and  heavy  for  three  or  four  hours 
afterwards." 

"But  not  longer — he  would  not  show  symptoms  for 
thirty-six  hours?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Then,  may  I  take  it  from  you,  doctor,  that  after  the 
five  or  six  hours  recovery  after  a  bad  attack  an  epileptic 
might  show  no  signs  of  the  disease — not  even  to  medical 
eyes — till  the  next  attack?" 


194  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"I  should  say  so,"  replied  the  witness.  "But  I  am  not 
an  authority  on  mental  diseases." 

"Thank  you." 

The  next  witness  was  Dr.  Gilbert  Horbury,  who  de- 
scribed himself  as  medical  officer  of  His  Majesty's 
prison,  Norwich,  and  formerly  medical  officer  of  the 
London  detention  prison.  In  reply  to  Sir  Herbert  Tem- 
plewood,  he  said  he  had  had  much  experience  in  cases 
of  insanity  and  alleged  insanity.  He  had  had  the  ac- 
cused in  the  present  case  under  observation  since  the 
time  he  had  been  brought  to  the  gaol.  He  was  very  taci- 
turn, but  he  was  quiet  and  gentlemanly  in  his  behaviour. 
His  temperature  and  pulse  were  normal,  but  he  slept 
badly,  and  twice  he  complained  of  pains  in  the  head. 
Witness  attributed  the  pains  in  the  head  to  the  effect  of 
shell-shock.  He  had  seen  no  signs  which  suggested,  to 
his  mind,  that  prisoner  was  an  epileptic.  In  reply  to  a 
direct  question  by  Sir  Herbert  Templewood,  he  expressed 
his  deliberate  professional  opinion  that  accused  was 
not  suffering  from  epilepsy  in  any  form.  Epilepsy 
did  not  start  off  with  a  bad  attack  ending  in  violence — 
or  murder.  There  were  premonitory  symptoms  and 
slight  attacks  extending  over  a  considerable  period,  which 
must  have  manifested  themselves,  particularly  in  the  case 
of  a  man  who  had  been  through  an  arduous  military 
campaign.  His  illness  might  have  had  a  bad  effect  on 
the  brain,  but  if  it  had  led  to  mental  disease  he  would 
have  expected  it  to  show  itself  before. 

From  this  point  of  view  the  witness,  a  dour,  grey  figure 
of  a  man,  refused  to  be  driven  by  cross-examination. 
His  many  professional  years  within  the  sordid  atmos- 
phere of  gaol  walls  had  taught  him  that  most  criminals 
were  malingerers  by  instinct,  and  that  pretended  insanity 
was  the  commonest  form  of  their  imposition  to  evade  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  195 

consequence  of  their  misdeeds.  The  number  of  false 
cases  which  had  passed  through  his  hands  had  led  him 
to  the  very  human  conclusion  that  all  such  defences  were 
merely  efforts  to  defraud  the  law,  and,  as  a  zealous 
officer  of  the  law,  he  took  a  righteous  satisfaction  in 
discomfiting  them,  particularly  when — as  in  the  present 
instance — the  defence  was  used  to  shield  an  accused 
of  some  social  standing.  For  Dr.  Horbury's  political 
tendencies  were  levelling  and  iconoclastic,  and  he  had  a 
deep  contempt  for  caste,  titles,  and  monarchs. 

He  was  too  sophisticated  as  a  witness  to  walk  into 
Mr.  Middleheath's  trap  and  contradict  Sir  Henry's  evi- 
dence directly,  but  he  contrived  to  convey  the  impression 
that  his  own  observation  of  accused,  covering  a  period 
of  nine  days,  was  a  better  guide  for  the  jury  in  arriving 
at  a  conclusion  as  to  the  accused's  state  of  mind  than 
Sir  Henry's  opinion,  formed  after  a  single  and  limited 
opportunity  of  diagnosing  the  case.  He  also  managed 
to  infer,  in  a  gentlemanly  professional  way,  that  Sir 
Henry  Durwood  was  deservedly  eminent  in  the  medical 
world  as  a  nerve  specialist,  rather  than  as  a  mental  spe- 
cialist, whereas  witness's  own  experience  in  mental  cases 
had  been  very  wide.  He  talked  learnedly  of  the  diffi- 
culty of  diagnosing  epilepsy  except  after  prolonged  ob- 
servation, and  cited  lengthily  from  big  books,  which  a 
court  constable  brought  into  court  one  by  one,  on  symp- 
toms, reflex  causes,  auras,  grand  mal,  petit  mal,  Jackso- 
nian  epilepsy,  and  the  like. 

The  only  admission  of  any  value  that  Mr.  Middleheath 
could  extract  from  Dr.  Horbury  was  a  statement  that 
while  he  had  seen  no  symptoms  in  the  prisoner  to  suggest 
that  he  was  an  epileptic,  epileptics  did  not,  as  a  rule, 
show  symptoms  of  the  disease  between  the  attack. 

"Therefore,  assuming  the  fact  that  Penreath  is  subject 


196  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

to  epilepsy,  you  would  not  necessarily  expect  to  find  any 
symptoms  of  the  disease  during  the  time  he  was  awaiting 
trial  ?"  asked  Mr.  Middleheath,  eagerly  following  up  the 
opening. 

"Possibly  nothing  that  one  could  swear  to,"  rejoined 
the  witness,  in  an  exceedingly  dry  tone. 

Mr.  Middleheath  essayed  no  more  questions,  but  got 
the  witness  out  of  the  box  as  quickly  as  possible,  trusting 
to  his  own  address  to  remove  the  effect  of  the  evidence 
on  the  mind  of  the  jury.  At  the  outset  of  that  address 
he  pointed  out  that  the  case  for  the  Crown  rested  upon 
purely  circumstantial  evidence,  and  that  nobody  had  seen 
prisoner  commit  the  murder  with  which  he  was  charged. 
The  main  portion  of  his  remarks  was  directed  to  con- 
vincing the  jury  that  the  prisoner  was  the  unhappy  vic- 
tim of  epileptic  attacks,  in  which  he  was  not  responsible 
for  his  actions.  He  scouted  the  theory  of  motive,  as  put 
forward  by  the  Crown.  It  was  not  fair  to  suggest  that 
the  Treasury  note  which  the  accused  paid  to  the  servant 
at  the  inn  was  necessarily  part  of  the  dead  man's  money 
which  had  disappeared  on  the  night  of  the  murder  and 
had  not  since  been  recovered.  The  fact  that  accused  had 
been  turned  out  of  the  Grand  Hotel,  for  not  paying  his 
hotel  bill,  was  put  forward  by  the  Crown  to  show  that 
he  was  in  a  penniless  condition,  but  that  assumption  went 
too  far.  It  might  well  be  that  a  man  in  accused's  social 
standing  would  have  a  pound  or  two  in  his  pocket,  al- 
though he  might  not  be  able  to  meet  an  hotel  bill  of  £30. 

"Can  you  conceive  this  young  man,  this  gallant  soldier, 
this  heir  to  an  old  and  honourable  name,  with  everything 
in  life  to  look  forward  to,  committing  an  atrocious  mur- 
der for  £300?"  continued  Mr.  Middleheath.  "The  tra- 
ditions of  his  name  and  race,  his  upbringing,  his  recent 
gallant  career  as  a  soldier,  alike  forbid  the  sordid  possi- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  197 

bility.  Moreover,  he  had  no  need  to  commit  a  crime  to 
obtain  money.  His  father,  his  friends,  or  the  woman 
who  was  to  be  his  wife,  would  have  instantly  supplied 
him  with  the  money  he  needed,  if  they  had  known  he  was 
in  want.  To  a  young  man  in  his  station  of  life  ^300  is 
a  comparatively  small  sum.  Is  it  likely  that  he  would 
have  committed  murder  to  obtain  it  ?" 

"On  the  other  hand,  the  prisoner's  actions,  since  re- 
turning to  England,  strongly  suggest  that  his  mind  has 
been  giving  way  for  some  time  past.  He  was  invalided 
from  the  Army  suffering  from  shell-shock,  with  the  result 
that  his  constitution  became  weakened,  and  the  fatal  taint 
of  inherited  epilepsy,  which  was  in  his  blood,  began  to 
manifest  itself.  His  family  doctor  and  his  fiancee  have 
told  you  that  his  behaviour  was  strange  before  he  left 
for  Norfolk ;  since  coming  to  Norfolk  it  has  been  unmis- 
takably that  of  a  man  who  is  no  longer  sane.  Was  it 
the  conduct  of  a  sane  man  to  conceal  his  whereabouts 
from  his  friends,  and  stay  at  an  hotel  without  money  till 
he  was  turned  out,  when  he  might  have  had  plenty  of 
money,  or  at  all  events  saved  himself  the  humiliation  of 
being  turned  out  of  the  hotel,  at  the  cost  of  a  telegram? 
And  why  did  he  subsequently  go  miles  across  country  to 
a  remote  and  wretched  inn,  where  he  had  never  been  be- 
fore, and  beg  for  a  bed  for  the  night?  Were  these  the 
acts  of  a  sane  man?" 

In  his  peroration  Mr.  Middleheath  laid  particular  em- 
phasis on  the  evidence  of  Sir  Henry  Durwood,  whose 
name  was  known  throughout  England  as  one  of  the  most 
eminent  specialists  of  his  day.  Sir  Henry  Durwood,  Mr. 
Middleheath  pointed  out,  had  seen  the  prisoner  in  a  fit 
at  the  Durrington  hotel,  and  he  emphatically  declared 
that  the  accused  was  an  epileptic,  with  homicidal  ten- 
dencies. Such  an  opinion,  coming  from  such  a  quarter, 


198  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

was,  to  Mr.  Middleheath's  mind,  incontrovertible  proof 
of  the  prisoner's  insanity,  and  he  did  not  see  how  the 
jury  could  go  behind  it  in  coming  to  a  decision. 

Sir  Herbert  Templewood's  address  consisted  of  a  dry 
marshalling  of  the  facts  for  and  against  the  theory  of 
insanity.  Sir  Herbert  contended  that  the  defence  had 
failed  to  establish  their  contention  that  the  accused  man 
was  not  in  his  right  mind.  He  impressed  upon  the  jury 
the  decided  opinion  of  Dr.  Horbury,  who,  as  doctor  of 
the  metropolitan  receiving  gaol,  had  probably  a  wider 
experience  of  epilepsy  and  insanity  than  any  specialist  in 
the  world.  Dr.  Horbury,  after  nine  days  close  observa- 
tion of  the  accused,  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
was  perfectly  sane  and  responsible  for  his  actions. 

The  general  opinion  among  the  bunch  of  legal  wigs 
which  gathered  together  at  the  barristers'  table  as  Sir 
Herbert  Templewood  resumed  his  seat  was  that  the  issue 
had  been  very  closely  fought  on  both  sides,  and  that  the 
verdict  would  depend  largely  upon  the  way  the  judge 
summed  up. 

His  lordship  commenced  his  summing  up  by  informing 
the  jury  that  in  the  first  place  they  must  be  satisfied  that 
the  prisoner  was  the  person  who  killed  Mr.  Glenthorpe. 
He  did  not  think  they  would  have  much  difficulty  on  that 
head,  because,  although  the  evidence  was  purely  circum- 
stantial, it  pointed  strongly  to  the  accused,  and  the  de- 
fence had  not  seriously  contested  the  charge.  There- 
fore, if  they  were  satisfied  that  the  accused  did,  in  fact, 
cause  the  death  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  the  only  question  that 
remained  for  them  to  decide  was  the  state  of  the  prison- 
er's mind  at  the  time.  If  they  were  satisfied  that  he  was 
not  insane  at  the  time,  they  must  find  him  guilty  of  mur- 
der. If,  however,  they  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
was  insane  at  the  time  he  committed  the  act,  they  would 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  199 

return  a  verdict  that  he  was  guilty  of  the  act  charged 
against  him,  but  that  he  was  insane  at  the  time. 

His  lordship  painstakingly  defined  the  difference  be- 
tween sanity  and  insanity  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  but 
though  his  precise  and  legal  definition  called  forth  ap- 
preciative glances  from  the  lawyers  below  him,  it  is 
doubtful  whether  the  jury  were  much  wiser  for  the  ex- 
planation. After  reviewing  the  evidence  for  the  prose- 
cution at  considerable  length,  his  lordship  then  proceeded, 
with  judicial  impartiality,  to  state  the  case  for  the  de- 
fence. The  case  for  the  prisoner,  he  said,  was  that  he 
had  been  strange  or  eccentric  ever  since  he  returned  from 
the  front  suffering  from  shell-shock,  that  his  eccentricity 
deepened  into  homicidal  insanity,  and  that  he  committed 
the  act  of  which  he  stood  charged  while  suffering  under 
an  attack  of  epilepsy,  which  produced  a  state  of  mind 
that  led  the  sufferer  to  commit  an  act  of  violence  without 
understanding  what  he  was  doing.  In  view  of  the  nature 
of  this  defence  the  jury  were  bound  to  look  into  the 
prisoner's  family  and  hereditary  history,  and  into  his  own 
acts  before  the  murder,  before  coming  to  a  conclusion  as 
to  his  state  of  mind. 

The  defence,  he  thought,  had  proved  sufficient  to  en- 
able the  jury  to  draw  the  conclusion  that  Lady  Penreath, 
the  mother  of  the  prisoner,  was  an  epileptic.  The  asser- 
tion that  the  prisoner  was  an  epileptic  rested  upon  the 
evidence  of  Sir  Henry  Durwood,  for  the  evidence  of 
Miss  Willoughby  and  the  family  doctor  went  no  further 
than  to  suggest  a  slight  strangeness  or  departure  from 
the  prisoner's  usual  demeanour.  Sir  Henry  Durwood, 
by  reason  of  his  professional  standing,  was  entitled  to  be 
received  with  respect,  but  he  had  himself  admitted  that 
he  had  had  no  previous  opportunity  of  diagnosing  the 
case  of  accused,  and  that  it  was  difficult  to  form  an  exact 


200  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

opinion  in  a  disease  like  epilepsy.  Dr.  Horbury,  on  the 
.other  hand,  had  declared  that  the  prisoner  showed  noth- 
ing symptomatic  of  epilepsy  while  awaiting  remand.  In 
Dr.  Horbury's  opinion,  he  was  not  an  epileptic.  There- 
fore the  case  resolved  itself  into  a  direct  conflict  of  med- 
ical testimony,  and  it  was  for  the  jury  to  decide,  and 
form  a  conclusion  as  to  the  man's  state  of  mind  in  con- 
junction with  the  other  evidence. 

"The  contention  for  the  defence,"  continued  his  lord- 
ship, leaning  forward  and  punctuating  his  words  with 
sharp  taps  of  his  fountain  pen  on  the  desk  in  front  of 
him,  "is  this:  'Look  at  this  case  fairly  and  clearly, 
and  you  are  bound  to  come  to  the  conclusion  that  this 
man  is  not  in  a  sound  frame  of  mind.'  The  prosecution, 
on  the  other  hand,  say,  'The  facts  of  this  case  do  not 
point  to  insanity  at  all,  but  to  deliberate  murder  for  gain.' 
The  defence  urge  further,  'You  have  got  to  look  at  the 
probabilities.  No  man  in  prisoner's  position,  a  gentle- 
man by  birth  and  upbringing,  the  heir  of  an  old  and 
proud  name,  with  a  hitherto  unblemished  reputation,  and 
the  prospects  of  a  long  and  not  inconspicuous  career  in 
front  of  him,  would  in  his  senses  have  murdered  this  old 
man.'  That  is  a  matter  for  you  to  consider,  because  we 
do  know  that  brutal  crimes  are  committed  by  the  most 
unlikely  persons.  But  the  prosecution  also  allege  mo- 
tive, and  you  must  consider  the  question  of  motive.  It 
is  suggested,  and  it  is  for  you  to  consider  whether  rightly 
or  wrongly  suggested,  that  there  was  a  motive  in  killing 
this  man,  because  the  prisoner  was  absolutely  penniless 
and  wanted  to  get  money. 

"Gentlemen,  you  will  first  apply  your  minds  to  con- 
sidering all  the  evidence,  and  you  will  next  consider 
whether  you  are  satisfied  that  the  prisoner  knew  the  dif- 
ference between  right  and  wrong  so  far  as  the  act  with 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  201 

which  he  is  charged  is  concerned.  You  must  decide 
whether  he  knew  the  nature  and  quality  of  the  act,  and 
whether  he  knew  the  difference  between  that  act  being 
right,  and  that  act  being  wrong.  I  have  already  pointed 
out  to  you  that  the  law  presumes  him  to  be  of  sane  mind, 
and  able  to  distinguish  between  right  and  wrong,  and 
it  is  for  him  to  satisfy  you,  if  he  is  to  escape  responsibility 
for  this  act,  that  he  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  right 
or  wrong.  If  you  are  satisfied  of  that,  you  ought  to  say 
that  he  is  guilty  of  the  act  alleged,  but  insane  at  the  time 
it  was  committed.  If  you  are  not  satisfied  on  that  point, 
then  it  is  your  duty  to  find  him  guilty  of  murder.  Gen- 
tlemen, you  will  kindly  retire  and  consider  your  verdict." 

The  jury  retired,  and  there  ensued  a  period  of  tension, 
which  the  lawyers  employed  in  discussing  the  technicali- 
ties of  the  case  and  the  probabilities  of  an  acquittal.  Mr. 
Oakham  thought  an  acquittal  was  a  certainty,  but  Mr. 
Middleheath,  with  a  deeper  knowledge  of  the  ways  of 
provincial  juries,  declared  that  the  defence  would  have 
stood  a  better  chance  of  success  before  a  London  jury, 
because  Londoners  had  more  imagination  than  other 
Englishmen. 

"You  never  can  tell  how  a  d d  muddle-headed 

country  jury  will  decide  a  highly  technical  case  like  this," 
said  the  K.C.  peevishly.  "I've  lost  stronger  cases  than 
this  before  a  Norfolk  jury.  Norfolk  men  are  clannish, 
and  Horbury's  evidence  carried  weight.  He  is  a  Nor- 
folk man,  though  he  has  been  in  London.  One  never 
knows,  of  course.  If  the  jury  remain  out  over  an  hour 
I  think  we  will  pull  it  off." 

But  the  jury  returned  into  court  after  an  absence  of 
forty  minutes.  The  judge,  who  was  waiting  in  his  pri- 
vate room,  was  informed,  and  he  entered  the  court  and 


202  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

resumed  his  seat.  The  jury  answered  to  their  names, 
and  then  the  Gerk  of  Arraigns,  in  a  singsong  voice,  said : 

"Gentlemen,  have  you  agreed  upon  your  verdict?  Do 
you  find  the  prisoner  guilty  or  not  guilty  of  wilful 
murder  ?" 

"Guilty !"  answered  the  foreman,  in  a  loud,  clear  voice. 

"You  say  that  he  is  guilty  of  murder,  and  that  is  the 
verdict  of  you  all?" 

"That  is  the  verdict  of  us  all,"  was  the  response. 

"James  Ronald  Penreath,"  continued  the  clerk,  turn- 
ing to  the  accused  man,  and  speaking  in  the  same  sing- 
song tones  of  one  who  repeated  a  formula  by  rote,  "you 
stand  convicted  of  the  crime  of  wilful  murder.  Have 
you  anything  to  say  for  yourself  why  the  Court  should 
not  give  you  judgment  of  death  according  to  law?" 

The  man  in  the  dock,  who  had  turned  very  pale, 
merely  shook  his  head. 

The  judge,  with  expressionless  face  and  in  an  expres- 
sionless voice,  pronounced  sentence  of  death. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

COLWYN  returned  to  Durrington  in  a  perplexed  and 
dissatisfied  frame  of  mind.  The  trial,  which  he  had  at- 
tended and  followed  closely,  had  failed  to  convince  him 
that  all  the  facts  concerning  the  death  of  Roger  Glen- 
thorpe  had  been  brought  to  light.  Really,  the  trial  had 
not  been  a  trial  at  all,  but  merely  a  battle  of  lawyers 
about  the  state  of  Penreath's  mind. 

If  Penreath  was  really  sane — and  Colwyn,  who  had 
watched  him  closely  during  the  trial,  believed  that  he 
was — the  Crown  theory  of  the  murder  by  no  means  ac- 
counted for  all  the  amazing  facts  of  the  case. 

Should  he  have  done  more?  Colwyn  asked  himself 
this  question  again  and  again.  But  that  query  always 
led  to  another  one — Could  he  have  done  more?  In  his 
mental  probings  the  detective  could  rarely  get  away  from 
the  point — and  when  he  did  get  away  from  it  he  always 
returned  to  it — that  Penreath,  by  his  dogged  silence,  had 
been  largely  responsible  for  his  own  conviction.  If  a 
man,  charged  with  murder,  refused  to  account  for  ac- 
tions which  pointed  to  him  as  the  murderer,  how  could 
anybody  help  him?  Silence,  in  certain  circumstances, 
was  the  strongest  presumptive  proof  of  guilt.  A  man 
was  the  best  judge  of  his  own  actions  and,  if  he  refused 
to  speak  when  his  own  life  might  pay  the  forfeit  for 
silence,  he  must  have  the  strongest  possible  reason  for 
holding  his  tongue.  What  other  reason  could  Penreath 
have  except  the  consciousness  of  guilt,  and  the  hope  of 

203 


204  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

escaping  the  consequences  through  a  loop-hole  of  the 
law? 

Colwyn,  however,  was  unable  to  accept  this  line  of 
argument  as  conclusive,  so  he  tried  to  put  the  case  out 
of  his  mind.  But  the  unsolved  points  of  the  mystery — 
the  points  that  he  himself  had  discovered  during  his  visit 
to  the  inn — kept  returning  to  his  mind  at  all  sorts  of  odd 
times,  in  the  night,  and  during  his  walks.  And  each 
recurrence  was  accompanied  by  the  consciousness  that  he 
had  not  done  his  best  in  the  case,  but  had  allowed  the 
silence  of  the  accused  man  to  influence  his  judgment  and 
slacken  his  efforts  to  unravel  the  clues  he  had  originally 
discovered.  Thus  he  travelled  back  to  his  starting-point, 
that  the  conviction  of  Penreath  had  not  solved  the  mys- 
tery of  the  murder  of  Roger  Glenthorpe. 

The  hotel  and  its  guests  bored  him.  The  season  was 
over,  and  the  few  people  who  remained  were  elderly  and 
commonplace,  prone  to  overeating,  and  to  falling  asleep 
round  the  lounge  fire  after  dinner.  The  only  topics  of 
conversation  were  the  weather,  the  war,  and  food. 
Sometimes  the  elderly  clergyman,  who  still  lingered, 
though  the  other  golfers  had  gone,  sought  to  turn  the 
conversation  to  golf,  but  nobody  listened  to  him  except 
his  wife,  who  sat  opposite  to  him  in  the  warmest  part 
of  the  lounge  placidly  knitting  socks  for  the  War  Com- 
forts Fund.  The  Flegne  murder  and  its  result  were  not 
discussed;  by  tacit  mutual  understanding  the  guests 
never  referred  to  the  unpleasant  fact  that  they  had  lived 
for  some  weeks  under  the  same  roof  with  a  man  who  had 
since  been  declared  a  murderer  by  the  laws  of  his  country. 

Colwyn  decided  to  return  to  London,  although  the 
month  he  had  allowed  himself  for  a  holiday  was  not  com- 
pleted. He  was  restless  and  uneasy  and  bored,  and  he 
thought  that  immersion  in  work  would  help  him  to  for- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  205 

get  the  Glenthorpe  case.  He  came  to  this  decision  at 
breakfast  one  morning.  Within  an  hour  he  had  paid 
his  bill,  received  the  polite  regrets  of  the  proprietor  at 
his  departure,  and  was  motoring  leisurely  southward 
along  the  cliff  road  towards  its  junction  with  the  main 
London  road. 

Important  consequences  frequently  spring  from  trifling 
incidents.  Colwyn,  turning  his  car  to  the  side  of  the 
road  to  avoid  a  flock  of  sheep,  punctured  a  tyre  on  a 
sharp  jagged  piece  of  rock  concealed  in  the  loose  sand 
at  the  side  of  the  road.  He  had  not  a  spare  tyre  on  the 
car,  and  the  shepherd  informed  him  that  the  nearest 
town  where  he  could  hope  to  get  the  tyre  replaced  was 
Faircroft,  but  even  that  was  doubtful,  because  Faircroft 
was  a  small  town  without  a  garage,  and  the  one  trades- 
man who  did  motor-car  repairs  was,  just  as  likely  as  not, 
without  the  right  kind  of  tyres,  or  equally  likely  to  have 
none  at  all.  As  he  had  left  Durrington  barely  three 
miles  behind  Colwyn  decided  to  return  there,  to  have 
the  car  repaired,  and  defer  his  departure  till  the  follow- 
ing day. 

He  reached  Durrington  with  a  deflated  tyre,  took  the 
car  to  the  garage,  and  then  went  back  to  the  hotel.  It 
wanted  nearly  an  hour  to  lunch-time,  and  on  his  way  in 
he  paused  at  the  office  window  to  inform  the  clerk  that 
he  had  returned,  and  would  stay  till  the  following  day. 
The  proprietor  was  in  the  office,  checking  some  figures. 
The  latter  looked  up  as  Colwyn  informed  the  lady  clerk 
of  his  altered  plans,  and  informed  him  that  a  young  lady 
had  been  at  the  hotel  inquiring  for  him  shortly  after  his 
departure. 

"What  was  her  name?"  asked  the  detective,  in  some 
surprise. 

"She  didn't  give  her  name.     She  seemed  very  disap- 


206  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

pointed  when  she  learnt  that  you  had  departed  for  Lon- 
don, and  went  away  at  once." 

"What  was  she  like?" 

The  proprietor  and  the  lady  clerk  described  her  at  the 
same  time.  In  the  former's  eyes  the  visitor  had  ap- 
peared pretty  and  young  with  golden  hair  and  a  very 
clear  complexion.  The  lady  clerk,  without  the  least  de- 
parture from  the  standard  of  courtesy  imposed  upon  her 
by  her  position,  managed  to  indicate  that  the  impression 
made  upon  her  feminine  mind  was  that  of  a  white- faced 
girl  with  red  hair.  From  both  descriptions  Cohvyn  had 
no  difficulty  in  identifying  the  visitor  as  Peggy. 

Why  had  she  come  to  Durrington  to  see  him?  Obvi- 
ously the  visit  was  connected  with  the  murder  at  the  inn. 
Colwyn  recalled  his  last  conversation  with  her  on  the 
marshes  the  day  after  he  had  seen  her  come  out  of  the 
dead  man's  room. 

He  hurried  out  in  the  hope  of  finding  her.  She  had 
probably  come  by  train  from  Leyland,  and  would  go  back 
the  same  way.  Colwyn  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  a 
quarter  past  twelve,  and  there  was  no  train  back  to 
Leyland  till  half-past  one — so  much  Colwyn  remembered 
from  his  study  of  the  local  time-table.  Therefore,  un- 
less she  had  walked  back  to  Flegne  she  should  not  be 
difficult  to  find — probably  she  was  somewhere  on  the 
cliffs,  or  near  the  sea.  Somehow,  Peggy  seemed  to  be- 
long to  the  sea  and  Nature.  It  was  difficult  to  picture 
her  in  a  conventional  setting. 

It  was  by  the  sea  that  he  found  her,  sitting*  in  one  of 
the  shelters  on  the  parade,  with  her  hands  clasped  in  her 
lap,  looking  listlessly  at  a  fisher-boat  putting  out  from 
the  yellow  sands  below.  She  glanced  round  at  the  sound 
of  his  footsteps,  and,  seeing  who  it  was,  came  out  from 
the  shelter  and  advanced  to  meet  him. 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  207 

"They  told  me  at  the  hotel  somebody  had  been  asking 
for  me,  and  I  guessed  it  was  you.  You  wanted  to  see 
me?" 

"Yes."  She  did  not  express  any  surprise  at  his  re- 
turn, as  another  girl  would,  but  stood  with  her  hands 
still  clasped  in  front  of  her,  and  a  look  of  entreaty  in 
her  eyes.  Colwyn  noticed  that  her  face  had  grown 
thinner,  and  that  in  the  depths  of  her  glance  there  lurked 
a  troubled  shadow. 

"Shall  we  walk  a  little  and  you  can  tell  me  what  you 
wish  to  say?" 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you." 

He  turned  away  from  the  front  and  towards  the  cliffs, 
judging  that  the  girl  would  feel  more  disposed  to  talk 
freely  away  from  human  habitation  and  people.  They 
went  on  for  some  distance  in  silence,  the  girl  walking 
with  a  light  quick  step,  looking  straight  in  front  of  her, 
as  though  immersed  in  thought. 

They  reached  a  part  of  the  cliffs  where  a  low  wall 
divided  the  foreland  from  an  old  churchyard  which  was 
fast  crumbling  into  the  sea.  Peggy  paused  with  her 
hand  on  the  wall,  and  looked  seaward.  The  sun,  pierc- 
ing a  rift  in  the  dark  clouds,  lighted  the  sullen  grey 
waters  with  patches  of  gold.  Colwyn,  in  the  hope  of 
inducing  his  companion  to  talk,  pointed  out  the  beautiful 
effect  of  the  light  and  shadow  on  the  sea. 

"I  hate  the  sea!  I  have  never  looked  at  it  since  the 
war  started  without  seeing  the  many,  many  dead  sailor 
boys  at  the  bottom,  staring  up  with  their  dead  eyes 
through  the  weight  of  waters  for  a  God  of  Justice  in  the 
heavens,  and  looking  in  vain."  She  turned  her  eyes 
from  the  sea,  and  looked  at  him  passionately.  "You  do 
not  care  about  the  sea,  either.  You  are  only  trying  to 
put  me  at  my  ease — to  help  me  say  what  I  want  to  say. 


208  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

It  is  kind  of  you,  but  it  is  not  necessary.  I  feel  I  can 
trust  you — I  must  trust  you.  I  am  only  a  girl  and  there 
is  nobody  else  in  the  world  I  dare  trust.  It  is  about — 
him.  Have  you  seen  him?  Have  you  spoken  to  him? 
Did  he  speak  about  me  ?" 

"I  saw  him  only  at  the  trial,"  replied  Colwyn,  with  his 
ready  comprehension.  "I  had  no  opportunity  of  speak- 
ing to  him  alone." 

"I  read  about  the  trial  in  the  paper,"  she  went  on. 
"They  said  that  he  was  mad  in  order  to  try  and  save  him, 
but  he  is  not  mad — he  was  too  good  and  kind  to  be  mad. 
Oh,  why  -did  he  kill  Mr.  Glenthorpe  ?  Will  they  kill  him 
for  that?  You  are  clever,  can  you  not  save  him?  I 
have  come  to  beg  you  to  save  him.  Ever  since  they  took 
him  away  I  have  seen  his  eyes  wherever  I  go,  looking 
at  me  reproachfully,  as  though  calling  upon  me  to  save 
him.  Last  night,  while  I  was  in  my  grandmother's  room, 
I  thought  I  saw  him  standing  there,  and  heard  his  voice, 
just  as  he  used  to  speak.  And  in  the  night  I  woke  up 
and  thought  I  heard  him  whisper,  'Peggy,  it  is  better  to 
tell  the  truth.'  This  morning  I  could  endure  it  no  longer, 
and  I  came  across  to  find  you." 

"You  have  known  him  before,  then?" 

"Yes."  The  girl  met  Colwyn's  grave  glance  with 
clear,  unafraid  eyes.  "I  did  not  tell  you  before,  not  be- 
cause I  was  afraid  to  trust  you,  for  I  liked  you  from  the 
first,  but  I  was  afraid  that  if  I  told  you  all  you  would 
think  him  guilty,  and  not  try  to  help  him.  And  when 
you  spoke  to  me  on  the  marshes  that  day  you  believed 
he  might  be  innocent." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"I  heard  you  say  so  to  that  police  officer — Superinten- 
dent Galloway — after  dinner  the  first  night  you  were  at 
Flegne.  I  was  passing  the  bar  parlour  when  you  and 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  209 

he  were  talking  about  the  murder,  and  I  heard  you  say 
that  you  thought  somebody  else  might  have  done  it.  The 
day  after,  when  you  saw  me  on  the  marshes,  I  was 
frightened  to  tell  you  the  truth,  because  I  thought  if  you 
knew  it  you  might  go  away  and  not  try  to  save  him." 

"You  had  better  tell  the  whole  truth  to  me  now. 
Nothing  you  can  now  say  will  make  it  worse  for  Pen- 
reath,  and  it  may  be  possible  to  help  him.  When  did  you 
first  meet  him?" 

"Nearly  three  weeks  before — it  happened.  I  used  to 
go  out  for  long  walks,  when  I  could  get  away  from 
grandmother,  and  this  day  I  walked  nearly  as  far  as 
Leyland.  He  came  walking  along  the  sands  a  little  while 
afterwards,  and  he  looked  at  me  as  he  passed.  Presently 
he  came  back  again,  and  stopped  to  ask  me  if  there  was 
a  shorter  way  back  to  Durrington  than  by  the  coast  road. 
I  told  him  I  didn't  know,  and  he  stopped  to  talk  to  me 
for  a  while.  He  told  me  he  was  in  Norfolk  for  a  holi- 
day, and  was  spending  the  time  in  country  rambles. 

"I  will  tell  you  the  whole  truth.  I  returned  to  the 
headland  next  day  in  the  hope  that  I  might  see  him 
again.  After  I  had  been  there  a  little  while  I  saw  him 
walking  along  the  sands.  He  waved  his  hand  when  he 
saw  me,  as  though  we  had  been  old  friends,  and  that 
afternoon  we  stayed  talking  much  longer. 

"I  saw  him  nearly  every  afternoon  after  that — when- 
ever I  could  get  away  I  walked  down  to  the  headland, 
and  he  was  always  there.  The  spot  where  we  used  to 
meet  was  hidden  from  the  road  by  some  fir-trees,  and  I 
do  not  think  we  were  ever  seen  by  anybody.  He  told 
me  all  about  himself,  but  I  did  not  tell  him  anything 
about  myself  or  my  home.  I  knew  he  was  a  gentleman, 
and  I  thought  if  I  told  him  that  my  father  kept  an  inn 
he  might  not  want  to  see  me  any  more,  and  I  could  not 


210  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

bear  that.  I  told  him  my  Christian  name,  and  he  liked 
it,  and  used  to  call  me  by  it,  but  I  would  not  tell  him 
my  other  name. 

"The  night  that  he  came  to  the  inn  I  met  him  in  the 
afternoon  at  the  headland  as  usual,  and  we  stayed  talking 
until  it  was  time  for  me  to  go  home.  He  was  very 
troubled  that  day,  and  it  grieved  me  to  see  him  looking 
so  white  and  ill.  When  I  questioned  him  he  told  me 
that  he  had  been  slightly  ill  that  morning,  and  that  he 
was  very  much  worried  about  money  matters.  I  felt 
very  unhappy  to  think  that  he  was  troubled  about  money, 
and  when  he  saw  that  he  said  he  was  sorry  he  had 
told  me. 

"When  I  left  him  it  was  later  than  usual.  I  was  sup- 
posed to  look  after  my  grandmother  every  afternoon,  and 
when  I  went  to  the  headland  I  usually  got  Ann  to  sit  in 
her  room  until  I  returned.  I  was  always  careful  to  get 
back  before  my  father  came  in  from  fishing  on  the 
marshes.  He  would  have  been  very  angry  if  he  had  re- 
turned and  found  me  absent,  and  I  should  not  have  been 
able  to  get  out  again.  It  was  nearly  four  that  afternoon 
when  I  left  the  headland,  and  I  walked  very  quick  so  as 
to  be  back  in  time.  It  was  getting  on  towards  dusk  when 
I  reached  home. 

"I  went  straight  up  to  my  grandmother's  room,  so  that 
Ann  could  go  down  and  get  dinner  for  Mr.  Glenthorpe, 
who  usually  came  in  about  dark.  I  sat  with  grand- 
mother till  past  six  o'clock,  and  then,  as  Ann  hadn't 
brought  grandmother's  tea,  I  went  down  to  the  kitchen 
to  get  it  myself.  Ann  was  very  busy  getting  dinner,  and 
she  told  me  a  young  gentleman  had  arrived  at  the  inn 
half  an  hour  before,  and  he  was  going  to  dine  upstairs 
with  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  and  stay  for  the  night.  I  was  sur- 
prised, for  we  rarely  had  visitors  at  the  inn.  I  asked 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  211 

Ann  some  questions  about  him,  but  she  could  tell  me 
very  little.  Charles,  the  waiter,  came  into  the  kitchen  to 
get  the  things  ready  to  take  upstairs,  and  he  told  me  that 
the  visitor  was  young,  good-looking,  and  seemed  a  gen- 
tleman. 

"I  got  grandmother's  tea  ready,  and  was  carrying  it 
along  the  passage  from  the  kitchen  when  I  fancied  I 
heard  Mr.  Penreath's  voice  in  the  bar  parlour.  I  thought 
at  first  that  I  must  be  mistaken;  then  the  door  of  the 
parlour  opened,  and  Mr.  Glenthorpe  and  Mr.  Penreath 
came  out.  I  was  so  surprised  and  frightened  that  I  al- 
most dropped  the  tray  I  was  carrying.  If  they  had  looked 
down  the  side  passage  they  would  have  seen  me.  But 
he  and  Mr.  Glenthorpe  turned  the  other  way,  and  went 
upstairs.  Then  Charles  came  along  carrying  a  dinner 
tray,  and  went  upstairs  also.  I  knew  then  that  Mr.  Pen- 
reath was  the  gentleman  who  was  going  to  dine  with 
Mr.  Glenthorpe,  and  stay  the  night. 

"I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  I  took  grandmother's 
tea  upstairs,  and  crept  past  the  room  where  they  were 
having  dinner,  because  I  did  not  want  him  to  see  me 
till  I  had  made  up  my  mind  what  to  do.  The  door  was 
shut,  and  they  couldn't  see  me,  though  I  could  hear  them 
talking  inside.  When  I  got  to  my  grandmother's  room 
I  tried  to  think  what  was  best  to  do.  My  first  thought 
was  that  he  had  found  out  who  I  was.  Then  it  seemed 
to  me  that  he  might  have  come  by  accident,  in  some  way 
that  I  didn't  understand,  because  why  should  he  dine 
with  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  and  stay  with  him,  if  he  had  come 
to  see  me?  Then  I  wondered  if  it  were  possible  that 
he  knew  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  who  was  a  gentleman  like  him- 
self, and  had  come  to  ask  him  to  help  him.  I  had  never 
told  him  anything  about  Mr.  Glenthorpe  or  myself. 


212  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"I  determined  to  try  and  see  him  that  night  to  let  him 
know  that  the  inn  was  my  home.  If  he  had  come  to 
the  inn  by  accident  it  was  better  that  he  should  not  meet 
me  in  front  of  my  father,  because  in  his  surprise  he 
might  say  that  he  had  met  me  before.  My  father  would 
have  been  very  angry  if  he  knew  I  had  been  meeting  a 
stranger.  So  I  went  along  the  passage  several  times  in 
the  hope  of  seeing  him  as  he  came  from  dinner.  But 
once  my  father  was  going  into  the  room  where  they  were 
having  dinner,  and  he  nearly  saw  me,  so  I  dared  not  go 
again. 

"A  little  after  ten  o'clock  my  grandmother  began  to 
get  restless,  as  she  always  does  when  a  storm  is  coming 
on,  and  I  had  to  stay  with  her  to  keep  her  quiet.  I  can 
do  more  with  her  than  anybody  else  when  she  is  like  that, 
and  it  is  not  safe  to  leave  her.  Sometimes  my  father 
goes  and  sits  with  her  a  while  before  he  goes  to  bed,  but 
this  night  he  did  not.  She  got  very  bad  as  the  storm 
came  on,  and  while  it  lasted  I  sat  alongside  of  her  hold- 
ing her  hand  and  soothing  her.  After  about  half  an 
hour  the  rain  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  had  commenced, 
and  grandmother  fell  asleep.  I  knew  she  was  all  right 
until  the  morning,  so  I  left  her  for  the  night. 

"As  I  turned  to  go  to  my  room,  I  thought  I  saw  a  light, 
in  the  other  passage,  and  I  went  down  to  see  what  it 
was.  I  thought  perhaps  Mr.  Penreath  might  be  waiting 
up  in  the  hope  of  seeing  me  before  I  went  to  bed. 

"I  crept  along  to  the  bend  of  the  passage,  and  looked 
down  it,  thinking  perhaps  I  might  see  him  and  speak  to 
him.  There  was  nobody  in  the  passage,  but  the  door 
of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room  was  half  open  and  a  light 
was  streaming  through  it. 

"I  do  not  know  really  what  took  me  to  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe's room.  I  have  tried  to  think  it  out  clearly  since, 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  213 

but  I  cannot.  I  know  I  was  distressed  and  troubled 
about  Mr.  Penreath's  presence  at  the  inn,  and  I  was 
afraid  he  would  be  cross  and  angry  with  me  for  not  hav- 
ing told  him  the  truth  about  myself.  And  before  that, 
when  I  was  walking  home  after  meeting  him  that  after- 
noon, I  had  been  unhappy  about  his  wanting  money,  and 
wished  that  I  could  do  something  to  help  him.  These 
thoughts  kept  going  through  my  head  as  I  sat  with 
grandmother  during  the  storm. 

"When  I  saw  the  door  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room  open, 
and  the  light  burning,  all  these  thoughts  seemed  to  come 
back  into  my  head  together.  I  remembered  how  good 
and  kind  Mr.  Glenthorpe  had  always  been  to  me.  I 
had  heard  my  father  tell  Charles  that  morning  that  Mr. 
Glenthorpe  had  gone  to  the  bank  at  Heathfield  that  day 
to  draw  out  a  large  sum  of  money  to  buy  Mr.  Cranley's 
field. 

"I  think  I  had  a  confused  idea  that  I  would  go  and 
confide  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  and  ask  him  to  help  Mr.  Pen- 
reath.  Perhaps  I  have  not  made  myself  very  clear  about 
this,  but  I  do  not  remember  very  clearly  myself,  for  I 
acted  on  a  sudden  impulse,  and  ran  along  the  passage 
quickly,  in  case  he  should  shut  his  door  before  I  got 
there,  because  I  knew  if  he  did  that  I  should  not  have 
the  courage  to  knock.  Through  the  half-open  door  I 
could  see  the  inside  of  the  room  between  the  door  and 
the  window.  It  seemed  to  me  to  be  empty.  I  gave  a 
little  tap  at  the  door,  but  there  was  no  reply.  It  was 
then  I  noticed  that  the  bedroom  window  was  wide  open, 
and  that  a  current  of  air  was  blowing  into  the  room  and 
causing  the  light  behind  the  door  to  cast  flickering 
shadows  across  the  room. 

"That  struck  me  as  strange.  I  knew  Mr.  Glenthorpe 
always  used  a  reading  lamp,  and  never  a  candle,  and  I 


214  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

knew  that  the  reading  lamp  wouldn't  cast  shadows  be- 
cause of  the  lamp  glass.  I  do  not  know  what  I  feared, 
but  I  know  a  dreadful  shiver  of  fear  crept  over  me,  and 
that  some  force  stronger  than  myself  seemed  to  compel 
me  to  step  inside  the  room  in  spite  of  my  fears. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"HE  was  lying  on  the  bed,  quite  dead.  There  was 
blood  on  his  breast,  and  his  hands  were  held  out,  as 
though  he  had  tried  to  push  off  the  man  who  had  killed 
him.  On  the  table,  by  the  head  of  the  bed,  was  a  lighted 
candle,  and  it  was  the  light  of  the  candle  which  had  cast 
the  flickering  shadows  I  had  seen  before  entering  the 
room.  On  the  bed,  near  the  pillow,  was  a  match-box, 
and  I  remember  picking  it  up  and  placing  it  in  the  candle- 
stick— mechanically,  for  I  am  sure  I  did  not  know  what 
I  was  doing,  and  I  did  not  recall  the  act  till  afterwards. 
I  have  a  clearer  recollection  of  touching  something  with 
my  foot,  and  stooping  to  pick  it  up.  It  was  a  knife — a 
white  handled  knife,  with  blood  on  the  blade.  And  as  I 
stood  there,  with  it  in  my  hand,  there  came  to  my  mind, 
clear  and  distinct,  the  memory  of  having  seen  that  knife 
on  the  dinner  tray  Charles  had  carried  past  me  upstairs, 
as  I  stood  in  the  passage  near  the  kitchen,  where  I  first 
discovered  that  Mr.  Penreath  was  in  the  house. 

"I  do  not  know  how  long  I  stood  there,  with  the  knife 
in  my  hand,  looking  at  the  body — perhaps  it  was  not 
more  than  a  moment.  There  seemed  to  be  two  individual- 
ities in  me,  one  urging  me  to  fly,  the  other  keeping  me 
rooted  to  the  spot,  petrified. 

"Then  I  heard  a  sound  downstairs.  A  wild  panic 
came  over  me,  and  my  head  grew  dizzy.  The  shadows 
in  the  corners  of  the  room  seemed  full  of  mocking  eyes, 
and  I  thought  I  heard  stealthy  steps  creeping  up  the 
stairs.  I  dared  not  stay  where  I  was,  but  I  was  too 

215 


216  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

afraid  to  go  out  into  the  passage  in  the  dark.  Then  my 
eyes  fell  on  the  candle,  and  I  picked  it  up  and  was  going 
to  rush  from  the  room,  when  I  remembered  that  I  had 
the  knife  in  my  hand. 

"I  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  it.  I  wanted  to  shield 
him,  but  some  feeling  within  me  would  not  let  me  carry 
it  away.  I  looked  round  the  room  for  somewhere  to 
hide  it,  and  my  eye  fell  on  a  picture  against  the  wall, 
close  to  the  door.  Quick  as  thought  I  put  the  knife  be- 
hind the  picture  as  I  ran  from  the  room. 

"There  was  nobody  in  the  passage,  and  I  gained  my 
own  room  and  locked  the  door.  I  think  I  must  have 
fainted,  or  become  unconscious,  for  I  remember  nothing 
more  after  throwing  myself  on  my  bed,  and  when  I  came 
to  my  senses  the  dawn  was  creeping  in  through  my  bed- 
room window.  I  was  very  cold,  and  dazed.  I  crept 
into  bed  without  taking  off  my  clothes,  and  fell  asleep. 
When  I  awoke  it  was  broad  daylight,  and  as  I  lay  in  bed 
I  heard  the  kitchen  clock  chime  seven. 

"I  got  up,  and  went  into  grandmother's  room.  A  little 
while  afterwards  Ann  came  up  with  some  tea,  and  she 
told  me  that  Mr.  Penreath  had  gone  away  early,  without 
having  any  breakfast.  She  told  me  that  she  had  found 
Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room  empty,  with  the  key  in  the  out- 
side of  the  door.  She  was  afraid  something  had  hap- 
pened to  him,  so  she  had  sent  for  Constable  Queensmead. 
I  did  not  tell  her  what  I  had  seen  in  the  night.  I  wanted 
to  be  alone,  to  think.  I  could  not  understand  how  Mr. 
Glenthorpe's  body  had  disappeared  from  his  room.  I 
think  I  hoped  that  I  would  presently  wake  up  and  find 
that  what  I  had  seen  during  the  night  was  some  terrible 
dream.  But  Ann  came  up  a  little  later  and  told  me  that 
Mr.  Glenthorpe's  body  had  been  discovered  in  the  pit  on 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  217 

the  rise,  and  that  Mr.  Ronald,  as  she  called  Mr.  Penreath, 
was  suspected  of  having  murdered  him. 

"When  she  told  me  that  I  felt  as  though  my  blood 
turned  to  ice.  I  knew  it  was  true — I  knew  that  he  had 
killed  Mr.  Glenthorpe  because  he  wanted  money — but 
I  knew  that  in  spite  of  all  I  wanted  to  shield  and  help 
him.  I  kept  in  my  grandmother's  room  all  day,  deter- 
mined to  keep  silence,  and  tell  nobody  about  what  I  had 
seen  during  the  night.  The  one  thing  that  worried  me 
was  the  knife  which  I  had  put  behind  the  picture  on  the 
wall.  I  tried  once  to  go  into  the  room  and  get  it,  but 
the  door  was  locked,  and  I  dared  not  ask  for  the  key. 

"Then  in  the  afternoon  the  police  came  from  Durring- 
ton.  I  did  not  know  who  you  were  when  you  came  with 
them  into  my  grandmother's  room,  but  as  soon  as  I  saw 
you  I  was  afraid,  though  I  tried  hard  not  to  let  you  see 
it.  I  knew  you  were  cleverer  than  the  others.  But  your 
eyes  seemed  to  go  right  into  mine,  and  search  my  soul. 
I  asked  my  father  afterwards  who  you  were,  and  he  said 
your  name  was  Mr.  Colwyn,  and  that  you  were  a  London 
detective.  I  had  read  about  you ;  I  knew  that  you  were 
famous  and  clever,  and  after  seeing  you  I  felt  that  you 
would  be  sure  to  discover  my  secret,  and  put  Mr.  Pen- 
reath in  prison. 

"That  night  when  I  was  downstairs,  I  heard  you  and 
the  police  officer  talking  in  the  room  where  you  had 
dined,  and  I  listened  at  the  door.  When  I  heard  you 
say  that  you  were  not  certain  who  committed  the  murder, 
I  was  very  much  surprised,  because  up  till  then  I  felt 
quite  certain  that  you  would  think  Mr.  Penreath  was 
guilty.  I  believed  if  you  found  the  knife  you  would 
alter  your  opinion,  Ann  having  told  me  that  the  police 
knew  that  Mr.  Glenthorpe  had  been  murdered  with  a 
knife  which  Mr.  Penreath  had  used  at  dinner.  The  idea 


2i8  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

came  into  my  head  that  if  I  could  get  the  knife  before 
you  found  it,  you  might  go  on  thinking  that  somebody 
else  had  committed  the  crime,  and  perhaps  persuade  the 
police  to  think  so  as  well. 

"I  made  up  my  mind  I  would  go  into  the  room  that 
night  and  get  the  knife.  I  knew  that  the  door  was 
locked,  and  that  the  police  officer  had  placed  the  key  on 
the  mantelpiece  in  the  bar  parlour.  During  the  evening  I 
kept  downstairs  at  the  back  of  the  passage  waiting  for 
an  opportunity  to  get  it.  You  both  stayed  there  so  long 
that  I  did  not  think  I  should  get  the  chance. 

"After  you  went  upstairs  to  bed  Mr.  Galloway  called 
Charles  to  get  him  some  brandy.  Charles  came  out  from 
his  room  to  get  it.  Mr.  Galloway  followed  him  into  the 
bar.  While  he  was  there  I  slipped  into  the  room  and 
got  the  key,  and  left  the  key  of  my  own  room  in  its 
place.  I  did  not  think  the  police  officer  would  notice 
the  difference,  but  it  was  a  risk  I  had  to  take.  Then  I 
ran  up  to  my  room. 

"Although  I  had  got  the  key  I  was  for  some  time 
afraid  to  use  it.  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  going 
into  that  room,  and  to  get  there  I  had  to  go  past  your 
door ;  I  did  not  like  that. 

"Then  I  crept  out  along  the  passage  as  quietly  as  I 
could,  carrying  my  shoes,  for  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
that  after  I  got  the  knife  I  would  take  it  across  the 
marshes  to  the  breakwater  and  throw  it  into  the  sea. 
That  was  the  one  place  where  I  felt  sure  you  would  not 
find  it.  I  carried  a  candle  in  my  hand,  but  I  dared  not 
light  it  until  I  got  past  your  door,  in  case  you  were  awake 
and  saw  the  light.  When  I  reached  Mr.  Glenthorpe's 
room  I  lit  the  candle  and  unlocked  the  door,  turning  the 
key  as  gently  as  I  could.  But  it  made  a  noise,  and,  as 
I  stood  listening,  I  thought  I  heard  a  movement  in  your 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  219 

room.  I  blew  out  the  candle,  stepped  inside  the  room, 
took  the  key  out,  and  locked  the  door  on  the  inside. 

"I  do  not  know  how  long  I  stood  there  listening  in  the 
dark,  but  I  know  that  I  was  not  as  frightened  as  I  had 
expected  to  be — at  first.  I  kept  telling  myself  that  Mr. 
Glenthorpe  had  always  been  kind  to  me  while  he  was 
alive,  and  that  he  would  not  harm  me  now  that  he  was 
dead.  I  did  not  look  towards  the  bed,  but  kept  close  to 
the  door,  straining  my  ears  to  catch  any  sound  in  the 
passage  outside.  But  after  a  while  I  began  to  get  fright- 
ened in  that  dark  room  with  the  door  locked,  and  dread- 
ful thoughts  came  into  my  mind.  I  remembered  a 
story  I  had  read  about  a  man  who  was  locked  up  all 
night  in  a  room  with  a  dead  body,  and  was  found  mad  in 
the  morning,  and  the  position  of  the  corpse  had  changed. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  though  Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  sitting 
up  in  bed  looking  at  me,  but  I  dared  not  turn  round  to 
see.  I  knew  that  I  must  get  out  of  the  room  or  scream. 
I  lit  the  candle,  felt  for  the  knife  behind  the  picture,  and 
opened  the  door.  As  soon  as  the  candle  was  alight  I  felt 
braver,  and  I  looked  out  of  the  door  before  going  into 
the  passage.  I  could  see  nothing — all  seemed  quiet — so 
I  came  out  of  the  room  and  locked  the  door  behind  me 
and  went  downstairs. 

"Once  I  was  outside  the  house  and  could  see  the 
friendly  stars  all  my  fears  vanished.  I  know  the 
marshes  so  well  that  I  can  find  my  way  across  them  at 
any  time.  And  in  my  heart  I  had  the  feeling  that  I  had 
been  brave  and  helped  him.  When  I  had  thrown  the 
knife  into  the  sea  from  the  breakwater  I  felt  almost  light- 
hearted,  and  when  I  reached  my  room  again  I  fell  asleep 
as  soon  as  I  got  into  bed. 

"Until  you  spoke  to  me  the  next  day  I  had  no  idea  that 
you  had  seen  and  followed  me.  But  I  knew  it  the  mo- 


220  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

ment  you  stopped  me  and  said  you  wanted  to  speak  to 
me.  Then  I  realised  you  had  watched  me,  and  the  story 
I  told  you  to  account  for  my  visit  to  the  room  came  into 
my  head.  I  did  not  know  whether  you  believed  me  or  not, 
but  I  did  not  care  much,  because  I  knew  you  could  not 
have  seen  what  I  threw  into  the  sea.  That  secret  was 
safe  as  long  as  I  kept  silence ;  and  you  couldn't  make  me 
speak  against  my  will." 

Peggy,  as  she  concluded,  glanced  up  wistfully  to  see 
how  her  companion  received  her  story,  but  she  could 
learn  nothing  from  the  detective's  inscrutable  face*.  Col- 
wyn,  on  his  part,  was  thinking  rapidly.  He  believed  that 
the  inkeeper's  daughter,  yielding  to  the  strain  of  a  secret 
too  heavy  to  be  borne  alone,  had  this  time  told  him  the 
truth,  but,  as  he  ran  over  the  main  points  of  her  narra- 
tive in  his  mind,  he  could  not  see  that  it  shed  any  addi- 
tional light  on  the  murder.  The  only  new  fact  that  she 
had  revealed  was  that  she  and  Penreath  had  been  ac- 
quainted before.  She  had  also,  perhaps  unconsciously, 
given  away  the  fact  that  she  and  Penreath  were  in  love 
with  each  other;  at  all  events,  her  story  proved  that  she 
was  so  deeply  in  love  with  Penreath  that  she  had  dis- 
played unusual  force  of  character  in  her  efforts  to  shield 
him.  But  that  knowledge  did  not  carry  them  any  fur- 
ther towards  a  solution  of  the  mystery.  It  was  with 
but  a  faint  hope  of  eliciting  anything  of  real  value  that 
he  turned  to  her  and  said : 

"There  is  one  point  of  your  story  on  which  I  am  not 
quite  clear.  You  said  that  in  the  morning,  when  you 
heard  of  the  recovery  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  body  from 
the  pit,  you  knew  that  Mr.  Penreath  was  the  murderer. 
Why  were  you  so  sure  of  that?  Was  is  because  you 
picked  up  the  knife  with  which  the  murder  was  com- 
mitted? The  knife  was  a  clue — the  police  theory  of 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  221 

course  is  that  Penreath  secreted  the  knife  at  the  dinner 
table  for  the  purpose  of  committing  the  murder — but, 
by  itself,  it  was  hardly  a  convincing  clue.  Was  there 
something  else  that  made  you  feel  sure  he  was  guilty  of 
this  crime?" 

"Yes,  there  was  something  else,"  she  repeated  slowly. 

"I  thought  as  much.  And  that  something  else  was 
the  match-box — is  that  not  so?" 

"Yes,  it  was  the  match-box,"  she  repeated  again,  this 
time  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"What  was  there  about  the  match-box  that  made  you 
feel  so  certain?" 

"Must  I  tell  you  that?"  she  said,  looking  at  him  help- 
lessly. 

"Of  course  you  must  tell  me."  Colwyn's  face  was 
stern.  "As  I  told  you  before,  nothing  you  can  do  or  say 
can  hurt  him  now,  and  the  only  hope  of  helping  him  is 
by  telling  the  whole  truth." 

"It  was  his  match-box.     It  had  his  monogram  on  it." 

"You  have  brought  it  with  you  ?" 

For  answer  she  took  something  from  the  bosom  of  her 
dress  and  laid  it,  with  a  heart-broken  look,  in  Colwyn's 
hand.  The  article  was  a  small  match-box,  with  a  regi- 
mental badge  in  enamel  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other 
some  initials  in  monogram.  Colwyn  examined  it  closely. 

"I  see  the  initials  are  J.R.P.,"  he  said.  "How  did  you 
know  they  were  his  initials?  You  knew  his  name?" 

"Yes.  He  used  to  light  cigarettes  with  matches  from 
that  match-box  when  I  was  with  him,  and  one  day  I 
asked  him  to  show  it  to  me.  He  did  so,  and  I  asked  him 
what  the  initials  were  for,  and  he  told  me  they  stood  for 
his  own  name — James  Ronald  Penreath.  And  then  he 
told  me  much  about  himself  and  his  family,  and — and  he 
said  he  cared  for  me,  but  he  was  not  free." 


222  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

She  gave  out  the  last  few  words  in  a  low  tone,  and 
stood  looking  at  him  like  a  girl  who  had  exposed  the  most 
sacred  secret  of  her  heart  in  order  to  help  her  lover. 
But  Colwyn  was  not  looking  at  her.  He  had  opened  the 
match-box,  and  was  shaking  out  the  few  matches  which 
remained  in  the  interior.  They  fell,  half  a  dozen  of 
them,  into  the  palm  of  his  hand.  They  were  wax 
matches,  with  blue  heads.  A  sudden  light  leapt  into  the 
detective's  eyes  as  he  saw  them — a  look  so  strange  and 
angry  that  the  girl,  who  was  watching  him,  recoiled  a 
little, 

"What  is  it?    What  have  you  found?"  she  cried. 

"It  is  a  pity  you  did  not  tell  me  the  truth  in  the  first 
instance  instead  of  deceiving  me,"  he  retorted  harshly. 
"Listen  to  me.  Does  any  one  at  the  inn  know  of  your 
visit  to  me  to-day  ?  I  do  not  suppose  they  do,  but  I  want 
to  make  sure." 

"Nobody.  I  told  them  I  was  going  to  Leyland  to  see 
the  dressmaker." 

"So  much  the  better."  Colwyn  looked  at  his  watch. 
"You  have  just  time  to  catch  the  half-past  one  train  back. 
You  had  better  go  at  once.  I  will  go  to  the  inn  some 
time  this  evening,  but  you  must  not  let  any  one  know 
that  I  am  coming,  or  that  you  have  seen  me  to-day.  Do 
you  understand  ?  Can  I  depend  on  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "I  will  do  anything  you  tell  me. 
But,  oh,  do  tell  me  before  I  go  whether  you  are  going 
to  save  him." 

"I  cannot  say  that,"  he  replied,  in  a  gentler  voice. 
"But  I  am  going  to  try  to  help  him.  Go  at  once,  or 
you  will  not  catch  the  train." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

i 
COLWYN  formed  his  plans  on  his  way  back  to  the  hotel. 

He  stopped  at  the  office  as  he  went  in  to  lunch,  and  in- 
formed the  lady  clerk  that  he  had  changed  his  mind 
about  leaving,  and  would  keep  on  his  room,  but  expected 
to  be  away  in  the  country  for  two  or  three  days.  The 
lady  clerk,  who  had  mischievous  eyes  and  wore  her  hair 
fluffed,  asked  the  detective  if  he  had  been  successful  in 
finding  the  young  lady  who  had  called  to  see  him.  On 
Colwyn  gravely  informing  her  that  he  had,  she  smiled. 
It  was  obvious  that  she  scented  a  romance  in  the  guest's 
changed  plans. 

As  the  detective  wished  to  attract  as  little  attention  as 
possible  in  the  renewed  investigations  he  was  about  to 
make,  he  decided  not  to  take  his  car  to  Flegne.  After 
lunch  he  packed  a  few  necessaries  in  a  handbag,  and 
caught  the  afternoon  train  to  Heathfield.  Arriving  at 
that  wayside  station,  he  asked  the  elderly  functionary 
who  acted  as  station-master,  porter  and  station  clearier 
the  nearest  way  across  country  to  Flegne,  and,  receiving 
the  most  explicit  instructions  in  a  thick  Norfolk  dialect, 
set  out  with  his  handbag. 

The  road  journey  to  Flegne  was  five  miles.  By  the 
footpath  across  the  fields  it  was  something  less  than 
four,  and  Colwyn,  walking  briskly,  reached  the  rise  above 
the  marshes  in  a  little  less  than  an  hour.  The  village  on 
the  edge  of  the  marshes  looked  grey  and  cheerless  and 
deserted  in  the  dull  afternoon  light,  and  the  sighing  wind 
brought  from  the  North  Sea  the  bitter  foretaste  of  win- 
ter. The  inn  was  cut  off  from  the  village  by  a  new  ac- 

223 


224  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

cession  of  marsh  water  which  had  thrust  a  slimy  tongue 
across  the  road,  forming  a  pool  in  which  frogs  were 
vociferously  astir. 

As  Colwyn  descended  the  rise  the  front  door  of  the 
inn  opened,  and  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  innkeeper 
emerged,  carrying  some  fishing  lines  in  his  hands.  He 
paused  beneath  the  inn  signboard,  the  rusty  swinging 
anchor,  and  looked  up  at  the  sky,  which  was  lowering 
and  black.  As  he  did  so,  he  turned,  and  saw  Colwyn. 
He  waited  for  him  to  approach,  and  left  it  to  the  visitor 
to  speak  first.  He  showed  no  surprise  at  Colwyn's  ap- 
pearance, but  his  bird-like  face  did  not  readily  lend  itself 
to  the  expression  of  human  emotions.  It  would  have 
been  almost  as  easy  for  a  toucan  to  display  joy,  grief,  or 
surprise. 

"Good  afternoon,  Benson,"  said  the  detective  cheer- 
fully. "Going  to  be  rather  wet  for  a  fishing  excursion, 
isn't  it?" 

"That's  just  what  I  can't  make  up  my  mind,  sir,"  re- 
plied the  other.  "Clouds  like  these  do  not  always  mean 
rain  in  this  part  of  the  world.  The  clouds  seem  to 
gather  over  the  marshes  more,  and  sometimes  they  hang 
like  this  for  days  without  rain.  But  I  do  not  think  I'll 
go  fishing  to-night.  The  rain  in  these  parts  goes  through 
you  in  no  time,  and  there's  no  shelter  on  the  marshes." 

"In  that  case  you'll  be  able  to  attend  to  me." 

"I'd  do  that  in  any  case,  sir,"  replied  the  other  quickly. 

"I  think  of  spending  a  few  days  here  before  returning 
to  London.  I  am  interested  in  archaeological  research, 
and  this  part  of  the  Norfolk  coast  is  exceedingly  rich  in 
archaeological  and  prehistoric  remains,  as,  of  course,  you 
are  well  aware." 

"Yes,  sir.  Many  scientific  gentlemen  used  to  visit  the 
place  at  one  time.  We  had  one  who  stayed  at  the  inn 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  225 

for  a  short  time  last  year — Dr.  Gardiner,  perhaps  you 
have  heard  of  him.  He  was  very  interested  in  the  hut 
circles  on  the  rise,  and  when  he  went  back  to  London  he 
wrote  a  book  about  them.  Then  there  was  poor  Mr. 
Glenthorpe.  He  was  never  tired  of  talking  of  the 
ancient  things  which  were  under  the  earth  hereabouts." 

"Quite  so.  I  should  like  to  make  a  few  investigations 
on  my  own  account.  That  is  why  I  have  come  over  this 
afternoon.  I  have  left  my  car  and  my  luggage  at  Dur- 
rington,  where  I  have  been  staying,  thinking  you  might 
find  it  easier  to  put  me  up  without  them.  I  presume  you 
can  accommodate  me,  Benson?" 

"Well,  sir,  you  know  the  place  is  rough  and  I  haven't 
much  to  offer  you.  But  if  you  do  not  mind  that " 

"Not  in  the  least.  You  need  not  go  to  any  trouble  on 
my  account." 

"Then,  sir,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  do  what  I  can  to  make 
you  comfortable.  Will  you  step  inside?  This  way,  sir 
— I  must  ask  Ann  about  your  room  before  I  can  take 
you  upstairs." 

The  innkeeper  opened  the  door  of  the  bar  parlour,  and 
asked  Colwyn  to  excuse  him  while  he  consulted  the 
servant.  He  returned  in  a  few  minutes  with  Ann  lum- 
bering in  his  wake.  The  stout  countrywoman  bobbed  at 
the  sight  of  the  detective,  and  proceeded  to  explain  in 
apologetic  tones,  with  sundry  catches  of  the  breath  and 
jelly-like  movements  of  her  fat  frame,  that  she  was  sorry 
being  caught  unawares,  and  not  expecting  visitors,  but 
the  fact  was  that  Mr.  Colwyn  couldn't  have  the  room 
he  slept  in  before,  because  she  had  given  it  a  good  turn 
out  that  day,  and  everything  was  upside  down,  to  say 
nothing  of  it  being  as  damp  as  damp  could  be.  There 
was  only  poor  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room — of  course,  that 
wouldn't  do — and  the  room  next,  which  the  poor  young 


226  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

gentleman  had  skpt  in.  Would  Mr.  Colwyn  mind  hav- 
ing that  room?  If  he  didn't  mind,  she  could  make  it 
quite  comfortable,  and  would  have  clean  sheets  aired  in 
front  of  the  kitchen  fire  in  no  time. 

Colwyn  felt  that  he  had  reason  to  congratulate  him- 
self that  he  had  been  asked  to  occupy  the  very  room 
which  he  desired  to  examine  closely.  The  lucky  acci- 
dent of  turning  out  the  other  room  would  save  him  a 
midnight  prowl  from  the  one  room  to  the  other,  with 
the  possible  risk  of  detection.  He  told  Ann  that  the 
room  Mr.  Penreath  had  slept  in  would  do  very  well, 
and  assured  her  that  she  was  not  to  bother  on  his  ac- 
count. But  Ann  was  determined  to  worry,  and  her  mind 
was  no  sooner  relieved  about  the  bedroom  than  she  pro- 
pounded the  problem  of  dinner.  She  had  been  taken 
unawares  in  that  direction  also.  There  was  nothing  in 
the  house  but  a  little  cold  mutton,  and  some  hare  soup 
left  over  from  the  previous  day.  If  she  warmed  up  a 
plateful  of  soup — it  was  lovely  soup,  and  had  set  into  a 
perfect  jelly — and  made  rissoles  of  the  mutton,  and  sent 
them  to  table  with  some  vegetables,  with  a  pudding  to 
follow;  would  that  do?  Colwyn  replied  smilingly  that 
would  do  excellently,  and  Ann  withdrew,  promising  to 
serve  the  meal  within  an  hour. 

Colwyn  passed  that  time  in  the  bar  parlour.  The  inn- 
keeper, of  his  own  accord,  brought  in  some  of  the  famous 
smuggled  brandy,  and  willingly  accepted  the  detective's 
invitation  to  drink  a  glass  of  it.  With  an  old-fashioned 
long- footed  liqueur  glass  of  the  brown  brandy  in  front  of 
him,  the  innkeeper  waxed  more  loquacious  than  Colwyn 
had  yet  found  him,  and  related  many  strange  tales  of  the 
old  smuggling  days  of  the  inn,  when  cargoes  of  brandy 
were  landed  on  the  coast,  and  stowed  away  in  the  inn's 
subterranean  passages  almost  under  the  noses  of  the  ex- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  227 

cise  officers.  According  to  local  history,  the  inn  had 
been  built  into  the  hillside  to  afford  better  lurking-places 
for  those  who  were  continually  at  variance  with  His 
Majesty's  excise  officers.  There  was  one  local  worthy 
named  Cranley,  the  lawless  ancestor  of  the  yeoman  who 
had  sold  the  piece  of  land  to  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  who  was 
reported  to  be  the  most  brazen  smuggler  in  Norfolk, 
which  was  saying  something,  considering  the  greater  por- 
tion of  the  coastal  population  were  engaged  in  smuggling 
in  those  days. 

Cranley  was  a  local  hero,  with  a  hero's  love  for  the 
brandy  he  smuggled  so  freely,  and  tradition  declared  of 
him  that  on  one  occasion  he  set  light  to  some  barns  and 
hayricks  in  order  to  warn  some  of  his  smuggling  com- 
panions who  were  "running  a  cargo"  that  a  trap  had  been 
laid  for  them.  The  farmers  who  had  suffered  by  the 
blaze  had  sought  to  carry  Cranley  before  the  justices,  but 
he,  with  a  few  choice  spirits,  had  barricaded  himself  in 
the  inn,  defying  the  countryside  for  months,  subsisting  on 
bread  and  brandy,  and  shooting  from  the  circular  win- 
dows on  the  south  side  of  the  house  at  the  soldiers  sent 
to  take  him.  Local  tradition  varied  as  to  the  ultimate 
fate  of  Cranley  and  his  desperate  band. 

According  to  some  authorities,  they  escaped  through 
the  marshes  and  put  to  sea;  but  another  version  of  the 
story  declared  that  they  had  been  captured  and  tried 
in  the  inn,  and  then  ingloriously  hanged,  one  after  the 
other,  from  the  stanchion  outside  the  door  from  which 
the  anchor  suspended.  This  version  added  the  touch 
that  Cranley 's  last  request  was  for  a  bumper  of  the 
famous  old  brandy  he  had  lost  his  life  for,  and  when 
it  was  given  him  he  quaffed  it  to  the  bottom,  dashed  the 
cup  in  the  hangman's  face,  and  swung  himself  off  into 
eternity.  Confirmatory  evidence  of  the  siege  of  Cranley 


228  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

and  his  merry  men  was  to  be  seen  in  the  outside  wall, 
which  was  dinted  with  bullet  marks  made  by  the  King's 
troops  as  they  tried  to  hit  the  smugglers,  firing  through 
the  circular  windows. 

The  innkeeper  rambled  on  in  this  fashion  until  the 
entry  of  Charles  with  a  table-cloth  reminded  him  of  the 
flight  of  time,  and  he  withdrew  with  a  halting  apology 
for  having  sat  there  talking  so  long.  The  fat  waiter 
saluted  Colwyn  with  a  grave  bow,  and  proceeded  to  lay 
the  cloth.  When  he  had  done  this  he  left  the  room  and 
returned  with  a  bottle  of  claret,  which  he  put  down  in 
front  of  the  fire,  and  proceeded  to  warm  the  wine,  keep- 
ing his  hand  on  the  bottle  as  he  did  so.  Then  he  lifted 
the  bottle  and  held  it  to  the  light  before  setting  it  care- 
fully on  the  table. 

"Your  knowledge  of  wine  is  not  of  much  use  to  you 
in  Flegne,  Charles,"  remarked  Colwyn.  "You  do  not 
belong  to  these  parts,  I  fancy." 

"No,  sir.  I'm  a  Londoner  born  and  bred,"  replied  the 
waiter,  in  his  soft  whisper. 

"Why  did  you  leave  it?  Londoners,  as  a  rule,  prefer 
their  city  to  any  other  part  of  the  world." 

"I'd  starve  there  now  that  my  hearing  is  gone.  London 
takes  everything  from  you,  but  gives  you  nothing  in  re- 
turn. I'm  only  too  grateful  to  Mr.  Benson  for  employ- 
ing me  here,  considering  the  nature  of  my  affliction.  No 
London  hotel  would  give  me  a  job  now.  But  though  I 
do  say  it,  sir,  I  think  I  make  myself  useful  to  Mr.  Benson, 
and  earn  my  keep  and  the  few  shillings  he  gives  me.  I 
save  him  all  the  trouble  I  can." 

This  was  undoubtedly  true,  as  Colwyn  had  observed 
during  his  former  visit  to  the  inn.  The  deaf  waiter  was, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes,  the  real  manager  of  the  inn, 
leaving  the  innkeeper  free  to  pursue  his  solitary  life  while 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  229 

he  attended  to  the  bar  and  the  cellar,  helped  Ann  with 
the  work,  and  waited  on  infrequent  travellers.  Doubt- 
less the  arrangement  suited  both,  though  it  could  not 
have  been  profitable  to  either,  for  there  was  little  more 
than  a  bare  living  for  one  in  such  a  place. 

Looking  up  suddenly  from  his  plate,  Colwyn  caught 
the  waiter's  black  eyes  fixed  on  him  in  a  keen  penetrat- 
ing gaze.  Meeting  the  detective's  eyes,  Charles  instantly 
lowered  his  own.  But  for  the  latter  action  Colwyn  would 
have  thought  nothing  of  the  incident,  for  he  was  aware 
that  Charles,  on  account  of  his  deafness,  had  to  watch  the 
lips  of  people  he  was  serving  in  order  to  read  their  lips. 
But  if  Charles  had  been  merely  watching  for  him  to 
speak  he  would  not  have  felt  impelled  to  avert  his  gaze 
when  detected.  The  sudden  lowering  of  his  eyes  was  the 
swift  unconscious  action  of  a  man  taken  by  surprise. 
The  detective  realised  that  Charles  did  not  accept  the 
reason  he  had  given  to  account  for  his  second  visit  to  the 
inn.  Charles  evidently  suspected  that  that  reason  masked 
some  ulterior  motive. 

Colwyn  finished  his  dinner  and  produced  his  cigar-case. 
Selecting  a  cigar,  he  lit  it  with  a  match  from  the  box 
Peggy  had  given  him  that  day. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  this  box  before,  Charles?"  he 
said,  placing  the  box  on  the  table. 

The  waiter  picked  up  the  little  silver  and  enamel  box 
and  examined  it  attentively. 

"I  have,  sir,"  he  said,  handing  it  back.  "It  is  Mr. 
Penreath's." 

"How  do  you  recognise  it  ?" 

"By  the  letters  in  enamel,  sir.  I  noticed  them  that 
night  at  the  dinner  table,  when  I  was  holding  Mr.  Pen- 
reath's candlestick  while  he  lit  it  with  a  match  from  that 
box." 


230  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"Did  he  put  it  back  in  his  pocket  after  lighting  the 
candle?" 

"Yes,  sir;  into  his  vest  pocket." 

"It  was  picked  up  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room  after  the 
murder  was  committed.  A  strong  clue,  Charles !  Many 
a  man  has  been  hanged  on  less." 

"No  doubt,  sir." 

The  waiter,  balancing  a  tray  on  his  deformed  arm, 
proceeded  to  clear  the  table.  When  he  had  completed 
his  task  he  asked  the  detective  if  he  needed  him  any  more, 
because  if  he  did  not  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  into  the 
bar.  On  Colwyn  saying  that  he  needed  nothing  further 
he  noiselessly  withdrew,  steadying  the  loaded  tray  with 
his  sound  hand. 

Colwyn  spent  the  evening  sitting  by  the  fire,  smoking. 
It  was  fortunate  he  had  plenty  to  think  about,  for  the  inn 
did  not  offer  any  resources  in  the  way  of  reading  to  occupy 
the  mind  of  the  chance  visitor  to  its  roof.  There  were 
a  few  books  in  the  recess  by  the  fireplace,  but  they  con- 
sisted of  bound  volumes  of  The  Norfolk  Sporting  Gazette 
from  1860  to  1870,  with  an  odd  volume  on  Fishing  on  the 
Broods  and  an  obsolete  Farmers'  Annual.  The  past  oc- 
cupants of  the  inn  had  evidently  been  keen  sportsmen, 
for  there  were  specimens  of  stuffed  fowl  and  fish  ranged 
in  glass  cases  around  the  walls,  and  two  old  rusty  fowling 
pieces  and  a  fishing  rod  hung  suspended  near  the  ceiling. 

Shortly  after  nine  o'clock  the  innkeeper  entered  the 
room  with  a  candlestick,  which  he  placed  on  the  table. 
He  explained  that  it  was  his  custom  to  go  upstairs  early, 
in  order  to  sit  with  his  mother  for  a  little  while  before 
he  retired.  The  poor  soul  looked  for  it,  he  said,  and 
grew  restless  if  he  was  late. 

"Who  is  sitting  with  her  at  present?"  inquired  the  de- 
tective. 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  231 

"My  daughter,  sir.    She  always  waits  till  I  go  up." 

"You  never  leave  her  alone,  then?" 

"Only  at  night-time,  sir.  The  doctor  told  me  she 
could  be  safely  left  at  night.  She  sleeps  fairly  well, 
considering,  though  when  there's  wild  weather  I  always 
go  in  to  her.  The  sound  of  the  wind  shrieking  across 
the  marshes  from  the  sea  excites  her,  and  we  get  a  lot 
of  that  sort  of  weather  on  the  Norfolk  coast,  particularly 
in  the  winter  months.  I  wish  I  could  afford  to  have  her 
better  looked  after,  but  I  cannot,  and  that's  the  long  and 
short  of  it." 

"Things  are  pretty  bad  with  you,  Benson?" 

"Very  bad,  indeed,  sir.  It  keeps  me  awake  at  night, 
wondering  where  it's  all  going  to  end.  However,  I  don't 
want  to  burden  you  with  my  troubles — I  suppose  we  all 
have  our  own  to  bear.  I  merely  came  in  to  bring  your 
candlestick,  and  to  ask  you  if  there  is  anything  you  want 
before  I  go  to  bed.  Charles  is  gone  to  his  room,  but  Ann 
is  still  up." 

"Tell  Ann  she  need  not  sit  up  on  my  account.  I  need 
nothing  further,  and  I  can  find  my  way  to  my  room. 
Is  it  ready  yet?" 

"Quite,  sir.  Ann  has  just  been  up  there,  putting  on 
some  fresh  sheets.  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  turning 
off  the  gas  at  the  meter  as  you  go  up — it  is  just  under- 
neath the  stairs.  If  you  would  not  mind  the  trouble  Ann 
could  then  go  to  bed.  We  keep  early  hours  here,  as  a 
rule.  There  is  nothing  to  sit  up  for." 

"I'll  turn  off  the  gas — I  know  where  the  meter  is. 
How  is  it,  Benson,  that  the  gas  is  laid  on  in  only  two 
of  the  rooms  upstairs — the  rooms  Mr.  Glenthorpe  used  to 
occupy  ?  It  would  have  been  an  easy  matter  to  lay  it  on 
to  the  adjoining  rooms,  once  the  pipes  had  been  taken 
upstairs." 


232  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"That's  quite  true,  sir,  but  the  gas  was  taken  upstairs 
on  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  account,  shortly  after  he  came  here. 
He  thought  he  would  like  it,  and  he  paid  the  bill  for 
having  it  fixed.  But  after  it  was  laid  on  he  rarely  used 
it.  He  said  he  found  the  gaslight  trying  for  his  eyes 
when  he  wanted  to  read  in  bed,  so  he  got  a  reading  lamp." 

"And  yet  the  gas  tap  was  partly  turned  on  in  his  room 
the  morning  after  the  murder,"  remarked  Colwyn  medi- 
tatively. 

"Perhaps  the  murderer  turned  it  on,"  suggested  the 
innkeeper  in  a  low  tone. 

But  there  was  a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice  that  did 
not  escape  the  keen  ears  of  the  detective. 

"That  is  possible,  but  the  point  was  not  cleared  up  at 
the  trial;  it  probably  never  will  be  now,"  he  replied, 
eyeing  the  innkeeper  attentively.  "And  the  incandescent 
burner  was  broken  too.  Have  you  had  a  new  burner 
attached,  Benson?" 

"No,  sir.    The  room  has  never  been  used  since." 

"It's  a  queer  thing  about  that  broken  burner.  That's 
another  point  in  this  case  that  was  not  cleared  up  at  the 
trial.  Who  do  you  think  broke  it?" 

"How  should  I  know,  sir?"  His  bird's  eyes,  in  their 
troubled  shadow,  turned  uneasily  from  the  detective's 
glance. 

"Nevertheless,  you  can  hazard  an  opinion.  Why  not? 
The  case  is  over  and  done  with  now,  and  Penreath — or 
Ronald,  as  he  called  himself — is  condemned  to  death.  So 
who  do  you  think  broke  that  burner,  Benson  ?" 

"Who  else  but  the  murderer,  sir  ?" 

"That's  the  police  theory,  I  know,  but  I  doubt  whether 
Penreath  was  tall  enough  to  strike  it  with  his  head.  It's 
more  than  six  feet  from  the  ground."  The  detective 
threw  a  critical  glance  over  the  innkeeper's  figure  as 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  233 

though  he  were  measuring  his  height  with  his  eye.  "You 
are  well  over  six  feet,  Benson — you  might  have  done  it." 

It  was  a  chance  shot,  but  the  effect  was  remarkable. 
The  innkeeper  swung  his  small  head  on  the  top  of  his 
long  neck  in  the  direction  of  the  detective,  with  a  strange 
gesture,  like  a  pinioned  eagle  twisting  in  a  trap. 

"What  makes  you  say  that!"  he  cried,  and  his  voice 
had  a  new  and  strident  note.  "I  had  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  replied  the  detective  sternly. 
"What  do  you  suppose  I  am  suggesting?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  replied  the  other.  "The  fact 
is  I  have  not  been  myself  for  some  time  past." 

His  voice  broke  off  in  an  odd  tremor,  and  Colwyn 
noticed  that  the  long  thin  hand  he  stretched  out,  as 
though  to  deprecate  his  previous  violence,  was  shaking 
violently. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  man?"  The  detective 
eyed  him  keenly.  "Your  nerve  has  gone." 

"I  know  it  has,  sir.  What  happened  in  this  house  a 
fortnight  ago  upset  me  terribly,  and  I  haven't  got  over 
it  yet.  I  have  other  troubles  as  well — private  troubles. 
I've  had  to  sit  up  with  mother  a  good  deal  lately." 

"You'd  better  take  a  few  doses  of  bromide,"  said  the 
detective  brusquely.  "A  man  with  your  nerves  should  not 
live  in  a  place  like  this.  You  had  better  go  to  bed  now. 
Good  night." 

"Good  night,  sir."  The  innkeeper  hurried  out  of  the 
room  without  another  word. 

Colwyn  sat  by  the  fire  for  some  time  longer  pondering 
over  this  unexpected  incident,  until  the  kitchen  clock 
chiming  eleven  warned  him  to  go  to  bed.  He  turned  off 
the  gas  at  the  meter  underneath  the  stairs  as  Benson  had 
requested.  When  he  reached  the  room  in  which  Mr. 


234  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

Glenthorpe  had  been  murdered,  he  paused  outside  the 
door,  and  turned  the  handle.  The  door  was  locked. 

As  he  was  about  to  enter  the  adjoining  bedroom  which 
had  been  allotted  to  him,  a  slender  pencil  of  light  pierced 
the  darkness  of  the  passage  leading  off  the  one  in  which 
he  stood.  As  he  watched  the  gleam  grew  brighter  and 
broader ;  somebody  was  walking  along  the  other  passage. 
A  moment  later  the  innkeeper's  daughter  came  into  view, 
carrying  a  candle.  She  advanced  quickly  to  where  the 
detective  was  standing. 

"I  heard  you  coming  upstairs,"  she  explained,  in  a 
whisper.  "I  have  been  waiting  and  listening  at  my  door. 
I  wanted  to  see  you,  but  it  is  difficult  for  me  to  do  so 
without  the  others  knowing.  So  I  thought  I  would  wait. 
I  wanted  to  let  you  know  that  if  you  wish  to  see  me  at 
any  time — if  you  need  me  to  do  anything — perhaps  you 
would  put  a  note  under  my  door,  and  I  could  meet  you 
down  by  the  breakwater  at  any  time  you  appoint.  No- 
body would  see  us  there." 

Colwyn  nodded  approvingly.  Decidedly  this  girl  was 
not  lacking  in  resource  and  intelligence. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  are  here,"  she  went  on  earnestly. 
"I  was  afraid,  after  I  left  you  to-day,  that  you  might 
change  your  mind.  I  waited  at  one  of  the  upstairs  win- 
dows all  the  afternoon  till  I  saw  you  coming.  You  will 
save  him,  won't  you?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  faint  smile,  which,  slight 
as  it  was,  gave  her  face  a  new  rare  beauty. 

"I  will  try,"  responded  Colwyn,  gravely.  "Can  you 
tell  where  the  key  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room  is  kept?" 

"It  hangs  in  the  kitchen.  Do  you  want  it  ?  I  will  get 
it  for  you.  If  Ann  or  Charles  see  me,  they  will  not 
think  it  as  strange  as  if  they  saw  you." 

She  was  so  eager  to  be  of  use  to  him  that  she  did  not 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  235 

wait  for  his  reply,  but  ran  quickly  and  noiselessly  along 
the  passage,  and  down  the  stairs.  In  a  very  brief  space 
she  returned  with  the  key,  which  she  placed  in  his  hand. 
"Is  there  anything  else  I  can  do  ?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing,  except  to  tell  me  where  you  got  the  key. 
I  want  to  put  it  back  again  without  anybody  knowing  it 
has  been  used." 

"It  hangs  on  the  kitchen  dresser — the  second  hook. 
You  cannot  mistake  it,  because  there  is  a  padlock  key 
and  one  of  my  father's  fishing  lines  hanging  on  the  same 
hook." 

"Then  that  is  all  you  can  do.  I  will  let  you  know  if 
I  want  to  see  you  at  any  time." 

"Thank  you.  Good  night!"  She  was  gone  without 
another  word. 

Colwyn  stood  at  his  door  watching  her  until  she  dis- 
appeared into  the  passage  which  led  to  her  own  room. 
Then  he  turned  into  his  bedroom  and  shut  the  door  be- 
hind him. 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  threw  it  open.  The  sea 
mist,  driving  over  the  silent  marshes  like  a  cloud,  touched 
his  face  coldly  as  he  stood  there,  meditating  on  the 
strange  turn  of  events  which  had  brought  him  back  to 
the  inn  to  pursue  his  investigations  into  the  murder  at 
the  point  where  he  had  left  them  more  than  a  fortnight 
before.  In  that  brief  period  how  much  had  happened! 
Penreath  had  been  tried  and  sentenced  to  death  for  a 
crime  which  Colwyn  now  believed  he  had  not  committed. 
Chance — no,  Destiny — by  placing  in  his  hand  a  significant 
clue,  had  directed  his  footsteps  thither,  and  left  it  for  his 
intelligence  to  atone  for  his  past  blunder  before  it  was 
too  late. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  that  the  hand  of  Destiny  was 
upon  him  that  Colwyn  turned  from  the  window  and  re- 


236  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

garded  the  little  room  with  keen  curiosity.  Its  drab 
interior  held  a  secret  which  was  a  challenge  to  his  in- 
telligence to  discover.  What  had  happened  in  that  room 
the  night  Ronald  slept  there?  He  noted  the  articles  of 
furniture  one  by  one.  Nothing  seemed  changed  since  he 
had  last  been  in  the  room,  the  day  after  the  murder  was 
committed.  There  was  a  washstand  near  the  window, 
a  chest  of  drawers,  a  dressing  table  and  a  large  wardrobe 
at  the  side  of  the  bed.  Colwyn  looked  at  this  last  piece  of 
furniture  with  the  same  interest  he  had  felt  when  he  saw 
it  the  first  time.  It  was  far  too  big  and  cumbrous  a 
wardrobe  for  so  small  a  room,  about  eight  feet  high 
and  five  feet  in  width,  and  it  was  placed  in  the  most  in- 
convenient part  of  the  room,  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  not 
far  from  the  wall  which  abutted  on  the  passage.  He 
opened  its  double  doors  and  looked  within.  The  ward- 
robe was  empty. 

Colwyn  made  a  methodical  search  of  the  room  in  the 
hope  of  discovering  something  which  would  throw  light 
on  the  events  of  the  night  of  the  murder.  Doubtless  the 
room  had  not  been  occupied  since  Penreath  had  slept 
there,  and  he  might  have  left  something  behind  him — 
perhaps  some  forgotten  scrap  of  paper  which  might  help 
to  throw  light  on  this  strange  and  sinister  mystery.  In 
the  detection  of  crime  seeming  trifles  often  lead  to  im- 
portant discoveries,  as  nobody  was  better  aware  than 
Colwyn.  But  though  he  searched  the  room  with  pains- 
taking care,  he  found  nothing. 

It  was  while  he  was  thus  engaged  that  a  faint  rustle 
aroused  his  attention,  and  looking  towards  the  corner 
of  the  room  whence  it  proceeded,  he  saw  a  large  rat 
crouching  by  the  skirting-board  watching  him  with  ma- 
levolent eyes.  Colwyn  looked  round  for  a  weapon  with 
which  to  hit  it.  The  creature  seemed  to  divine  his  in- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  237 

tentions,  for  it  scuttled  squeaking  across  the  room,  and 
disappeared  behind  the  wardrobe. 

Colwyn  approached  the  wardrobe  and  pushed  it  back. 
As  he  did  so,  he  had  a  curious  sensation  which  he  could 
hardly  define.  It  was  as  though  an  unseen  presence  had 
entered  the  room,  and  was  silently  watching  him.  His 
actions  seemed  not  of  his  own  volition ;  it  was  as  though 
some  force*  stronger  than  himself  was  urging  him  on. 
And,  withal,  he  had  the  uncanny  feeling  that  the  whole 
incident  of  the  rat  and  the  wardrobe,  and  his  share  in  it, 
was  merely  a  repetition  of  something  which  had  hap- 
pened in  the  room  before. 

The  wardrobe  moved  much  more  easily  than  he  had 
expected,  considering  its  weight  and  size.  There  was 
no  rat  behind  it,  but  a  hole  under  the  skirting  showed 
where  the  animal  had  made  its  escape.  But  it  was  the 
space  where  the  wardrobe  had  stood  that  claimed  Col- 
wyn's  attention.  The  reason  why  it  had  been  placed 
in  its  previous  position  was  made  plain.  The  damp  had 
penetrated  the  wall  on  that  side,  and  had  so  rotted  the 
wall  paper  that  a  large  portion  of  it  had  fallen  away. 

In  the  bare  portion  of  the  wall  thus  revealed,  about 
two  feet  square,  was  a  wooden  trap  door,  fastened  by 
a  button.  Colwyn  unfastened  the  button,  and  opened  the 
door.  A  black  hole  gaped  at  him. 

The  light  of  the  candle  showed  that  the  wall  was  hol- 
low, and  the  trap  opened  into  the  hollow  space.  There 
was  nothing  unusual  in  such  a  door  in  an  old  house ;  Col- 
wyn had  seen  similar  doors  in  other  houses  built  with 
the  old-fashioned  thick  walls.  It  was  the  primitive  venti- 
lation of  a  past  generation;  the  doors,  when  opened, 
permitted  a  free  current  of  air  to  percolate  through  the 
building,  and  get  to  the  foundations.  But  a  further  ex- 
amination of  the  hole  revealed  something  which  Colwyn 


238  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

had  never  seen  before — a  corresponding  door  on  the 
other  side  of  the  wall.  The  other  door  opened  into  the 
bedroom  which  had  been  occupied  by  Mr.  Glenthorpe. 
Colwyn  pushed  it  with  his  hand,  but  it  did  not  yield.  It 
was  doubtless  fastened  with  a  button  on  the  outside,  like 
the  other. 

Colwyn,  scrutinising  the  second  door  closely,  noticed 
that  the  wood  was  worm-eaten  and  shrunken.  For  that 
reason  it  fitted  but  loosely  into  the  aperture  of  the  wall, 
and  on  the  one  side  there  was  a  wide  crack  which 
arrested  Colwyn's  attention.  It  ran  the  whole  length  of 
the  door,  along  the  top — that  is,  horizontally — and  was, 
perhaps,  a  quarter  of  an  inch  wide. 

With  the  tightened  nerves  which  presage  an  important 
discovery,  Colwyn  felt  for  his  pocket  knife,  opened  the 
largest  blade,  and  thrust  it  into  the  crack.  It  penetrated 
up  to  the  handle.  He  ran  the  knife  along  the  whole 
length  of  the  crack  without  difficulty.  There  was  no 
'doubt  it  opened  into  the  next  room. 

Colwyn  closed  the  trap-door  carefully,  and  started  to 
push  the  wardrobe  back  into  its  previous  position.  As 
he  did  so,  his  eye  fell  upon  several  tiny  scraps  of  paper 
lying  in  the  vacant  space.  He  stooped,  and  picked  them 
up.  They  were  the  torn  fragments  of  a  pocket-book 
leaf,  which  had  been  written  upon.  Colwyn  endeavoured 
to  place  the  fragments  together  and  read  the  writing. 
But  some  of  the  pieces  were  missing,  and  he  could  only 
decipher  two  disjointed  words — "Constance"  and  "for- 
give." 

Slowly,  almost  mechanically,  the  detective  felt  for  his 
pipe,  lit  it,  and  stood  for  a  long  time  at  the  open  window, 
gazing  with  set  eyes  into  the  brooding  darkness,  wrapped 
in  profound  thought,  thinking  of  his  discoveries  and  what 
they  portended. 


CHAPTER  XX 

COLWYN  was  astir  with  the  first  glimmering  of  a  grey 
dawn.  He  wanted  to  test  the  police  theory  that  the  mur- 
der was  committed  by  climbing  from  one  bedroom  to 
the  other,  but  he  did  not  desire  to  be  discovered  in  the 
experiment  by  any  of  the  inmates  of  the  inn. 

The  window  of  his  bedroom  was  so  small  that  it  was 
difficult  to  get  through,  and  there  was  a  drop  of  more 
than  eight  feet  from  the  ledge  to  the  hillside.  After  one 
or  two  attempts  Colwyn  got  out  feet  foremost,  and  when 
half  way  through  wriggled  his  body  round  until  he  was 
able  to  grasp  the  window-ledge  and  drop  to  the  ground. 
The  fall  caused  his  heels  to  sink  deeply  into  the  clay  of 
the  hillside,  which  was  moist  and  sticky  after  the  rain. 

Colwyn  closely  examined  the  impression  his  heels  had 
made,  and  then  walked  along  until  he  stood  underneath 
the  window  of  the  next  room.  It  was  an  easy  matter 
to  climb  through  this  window,  which  was  larger,  and 
closer  to  the  ground — five  feet  from  the  hillside,  at  the 
most.  Colwyn  sprang  on  to  the  ledge,  and  tried  the  win- 
dow with  his  hand.  It  was  unlocked.  He  pushed  up  the 
lower  pane,  and  entered  the  room. 

From  the  window  he  walked  straight  to  the  bedside, 
noting,  as  he  walked,  that  his  footsteps  left  on  the  carpet 
crumbs  of  the  red  earth  from  outside,  similar  to  those 
which  had  been  found  in  the  room  the  morning  after  the 
murder.  He  next  examined  the  broken  incandescent 
burner  in  the  chandelier  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
took  careful  measurements  of  the  distances  between  the 

239 


240  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

gas  jet,  the  bedside  and  the  door,  observing,  as  he  did 
so,  that  the  gaslight  was  almost  in  a  line  with  the  foot 
of  the  bed.  That  was  a  point  he  had  marked  previously 
when  Superintendent  Galloway  had  suggested  that  the 
incandescent  burner  was  broken  by  the  murderer  striking 
it  with  the  corpse  he  was  carrying.  Colwyn  had  found 
it  difficult  to  accept  that  point  of  view  at  the  time,  but 
now,  in  the  light  of  recent  discoveries,  and  the  new 
theory  of  the  crime  which  was  gradually  taking  shape 
in  his  mind,  it  seemed  almost  incredible  that  the  mur- 
derer, staggering  under  the  weight  of  his  ghastly  burden, 
should  have  taken  anything  but  the  shortest  track  to  the 
door. 

After  examining  the  bed  with  an  attentive  eye,  Col- 
wyn next  looked  for  the  small  door  in  the  wall.  It  was 
not  apparent :  the  wall-paper  appeared  to  cover  the  whole 
of  the  wall  on  that  side  of  the  room  in  unbroken  con- 
tinuity. But  a  closer  inspection  revealed  a  slight  fissure 
or  crack,  barely  noticeable  in  the  dark  green  wall-paper, 
extending  an  inch  or  so  beyond  a  small  picture  suspended 
near  the  door  of  the  room.  When  the  picture  was  taken 
down  the  crack  was  more  apparent,  for  it  ran  nearly 
the  whole  length  of  the  space.  The  door  had  been 
papered  over  when  the  room  was  last  papered,  which 
was  a  long  time  ago,  judging  by  the  dingy  condition  of 
the  wall-paper,  and  the  crack  had  been  caused  by  the 
shrinking  of  the  woodwork  of  the  door,  as  Colwyn  had 
noticed  the  previous  night. 

Colwyn  let  himself  out  of  the  room  with  the  key  Peggy 
had  given  him,  locked  the  door  behind  him,  and  took  the 
key  down  to  the  kitchen.  It  was  still  very  early,  and 
nobody  was  stirring.  Having  hung  the  key  on  the  hook 
of  the  dresser,  he  returned  to  his  room. 

At  breakfast  time  that  morning  Charles  informed  him, 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  241 

in  his  husky  whisper,  that  he  had  to  go  over  to  Heath- 
field  that  day,  to  ascertain  why  the  brewer  had  not  sent 
a  consignment  of  beer,  which  was  several  days  overdue. 
Charles'  chief  regret  was  that  for  some  hours  his  guest 
would  be  left  to  the  tender  mercies  of  Ann,  and  he  let 
it  be  understood  that  he  had  the  poorest  opinion  of 
women  as  waitresses.  But  he  promised  to  return  in  time 
to  minister  to  Colwyn's  comforts  at  dinner.  Somewhat 
amused,  Colwyn  told  the  fat  man  not  to  hurry  back  on 
his  account,  as  Ann  could  look  after  him  very  well. 

As  Colwyn  was  smoking  a  cigar  in  front  of  the  inn 
after  breakfast,  he  saw  Charles  setting  out  on  his  jour- 
ney, and  watched  his  short  fat  form  toil  up  the  rise 
and  disappear  on  the  other  side.  Immediately  after- 
wards the  gaunt  figure  of  the  innkeeper  emerged  from 
the  inn,  prepared  for  a  fishing  excursion.  He  hesitated 
a  moment  on  seeing  Colwyn,  then  walked  towards  him 
and  informed  him  that  he  was  going  to  have  a  morning's 
fishing  in  a  river  stream  a  couple  of  miles  away,  having 
heard  good  accounts  in  the  bar  overnight  of  the  fish  there 
since  the  recent  rain. 

"Who  will  look  after  the  inn,  with  both  you  and 
Charles  away?"  asked  Colwyn,  with  a  smile. 

The  innkeeper,  carefully  bestowing  a  fishing-line  in 
the  capacious  side  pocket  of  his  faded  tweed  coat,  replied 
that  as  the  inn  was  out  of  beer,  and  not  likely  to  have 
any  that  day,  there  was  not  much  lost  by  leaving  it.  That 
seemed  to  exhaust  the  possibilities  of  the  conversation, 
but  the  innkeeper  lingered,  looking  at  his  guest  as  though 
he  had  something  on  his  mind. 

"I  do  not  know  if  you  care  for  fishing,  sir,"  he  re- 
marked, after  a  rather  lengthy  pause.  "If  you  do,  I 
should  be  happy  at  any  time  to  show  you  a  little  sport. 


242  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

The  fishing  is  very  good  about  this  district — as  good  as 
anywhere  in  Norfolk." 

Colwyn  was  quick  to  divine  what  was  passing  in  the 
innkeeper's  mind.  He  had  been  brooding  over  the  inci- 
dent in  the  bar  parlour  of  the  previous  night,  and  hoped 
by  this  awkward  courtesy  to  remove  the  impression  of 
his  overnight  rudeness  from  his  visitor's  mind.  As  Col- 
wyn was  equally  desirous  of  allaying  his  fears,  he  thanked 
him  for  his  offer,  and  stood  chatting  with  him  for  some 
moments.  His  pleasant  and  natural  manner  had  the  effect 
of  putting  the  innkeeper  at  his  ease,  and  there  was  an 
obvious  air  of  relief  in  his  bearing  as  he  wished  the 
detective  good  morning  and  departed  on  his  fishing  ex- 
pedition. 

Colwyn  spent  fhe  morning  in  a  solitary  walk  alongj 
the  marshes,  thinking  over  the  events  of  the  night  and 
morning.  He  returned  to  the  inn  for  an  early  lunch, 
which  was  served  by  Ann,  who  gossiped  to  him  freely 
of  the  small  events  which  had  constituted  the  daily  life 
of  the  village  since  his  previous  visit.  The  principal  of 
these,  it  seemed,  had  been  the  reappearance,  after  a  long 
period  of  inaction,  of  the  White  Lady  of  the  Shrieking 
Pit — an  apparition  which  haunted  the  hut  circles  on  the 
rise.  Colwyn,  recalling  that  Duney  and  Backlos  im- 
agined they  had  encountered  a  spectre  the  night  they 
saw  Penreath  on  the  edge  of  the  wood,  asked  Ann  who 
the  "White  Lady"  was  supposed  to  be.  Ann  was  ret- 
icent at  first.  She  admitted  that  she  was  a  firm  believer 
in  the  local  tradition,  which  she  had  imbibed  with  her 
mother's  milk,  but  it  was  held  to  be  unlucky  to  talk  about 
the  White  Lady.  However,  her  feminine  desire  to  im- 
part information  soon  overcame  her  fears,  and  she 
launched  forth  into  full  particulars  of  the  legend.  I 
appeared  that  for  generations  past  the  deep  pit  on  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  243 

rise  in  which  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  body  had  been  thrown 
had  been  the  haunt  of  a  spirit  known  as  the  White 
Lady,  who,  from  rime  to  time,  issued  from  the  depths 
of  the  pit,  clad  in  a  white  trailing  garment,  to  wander 
along  the  hut  circles  on  the  rise,  shrieking  and  sobbing 
piteously.  Whose  ghost  she  was,  and  why  she  shrieked, 
Ann  was  unable  to  say.  Her  appearances  were  infre- 
quent, with  sometimes  as  long  as  a  year  between  them, 
and  the  timely  warning  she  gave  of  her  coming  by  shriek- 
ing from  the  depths  of  the  pit  before  making  her  appear- 
ance, enabled  folk  to  keep  indoors  and  avoid  her  when 
she  was  walking.  As  long  as  she  wasn't  seen  by  any- 
body, not  much  harm  was  don«,  but  the  sight  of  her  was 
fatal  to  the  beholder,  who  was  sure  to  come  to  a  swift 
and  violent  end. 

Ann  related  divers  accredited  instances  of  calamity 
which  had  followed  swiftly  upon  an  encounter  with  the 
White  Lady,  including  that  of  her  own  sister's  husband, 
who  had  seen  her  one  night  going  home,  and  the  very 
next  day  had  been  kicked  by  a  horse  and  killed  on  the  spot. 
Ann's  grandmother,  when  a  young  girl,  had  heard  her 
shrieking  one  night  when  she  was  going  home,  but  had 
had  the  presence  of  mind  to  fall  flat  on  her  face  until  the 
shrieking  had  ceased,  by  wrhich  means  she  avoided  seeing 
her,  and  had  di«d  comfortably  in  her  bed  at  eighty-one  in 
consequence. 

Colwyn  gathered  from  the  countrywoman's  story  that 
the  prevailing  impression  in  the  village  was  that  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe's murder  was  due  to  the  interposition  of  the  White 
Lady  of  the  Shrieking  Pit.  The  White  Lady,  after  a  long 
silence,  had  been  heard  to  shriek  once  two  nights  before 
the  murder,  but  the  warning  had  not  deterred  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe  from  taking  his  nightly  walk  on  the  rise,  although 
Ann,  out  of  her  liking  and  respect  for  the  old  gentle- 


244  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

man,  had  even  ventured  to  forget  her  place  and  beg  and 
implore  him  not  to  go.  But  he  had  laughed  at  her,  and 
said  if  he  met  the  White  Lady  he  would  stop  and  have  a 
chat  with  her  about  her  ancestors.  Those  were  his  very 
words,  and  they  made  her  blood  run  cold  at  the  time, 
though  she  little  thought  how  soon  he  would  be  repenting 
of  his  foolhardiness  in  his  coffin.  If  he  had  only  listened 
to  her  he  might  have  been  alive  that  blessed  day,  for  she 
hadn't  the  slightest  doubt  he  met  the  White  Lady  that 
night  in  his  walk,  and  his  doom  was  brought  about  in 
consequence. 

Ann  concluded  by  solemnly  urging  Colwyn,  as  long  as 
he  remained  at  the  inn,  to  keep  indoors  at  night  as  he 
valued  his  life,  for  ever  since  the  murder  the  White  Lady 
had  been  particularly  active,  shrieking  nearly  every  night, 
as  though  seeking  another  victim,  and  the  whole  village 
was  frightened  to  stir  out  in  consequence.  Ann  had  re- 
luctantly to  admit  that  she  had  never  actually  heard  her 
shrieking  herself — she  was  a  heavy  sleeper  at  any  time 
— but  there  were  those  who  had,  plenty  of  them.  Be- 
sides, hadn't  he  heard  that  Charles,  while  shutting  up  the 
inn  the  very  night  poor  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  body  had  been 
taken  away,  had  seen  something  white  on  the  rise?  On 
Colwyn  replying  that  he  had  not  heard  this,  Ann  assured 
him  the  whole  village  believed  that  Charles  had  seen  the 
White  Lady,  and  regarded  him  as  good  as  dead,  and 
many  were  the  speculations  as  to  the  manner  in  which 
his  inevitable  fate  would  fall. 

The  relation  of  the  legend  of  the  White  Lady  lasted 
to  the  conclusion  of  lunch,  and  then  Colwyn  sauntered 
outside  with  a  cigar,  in  order  to  make  another  examina- 
tion of  the  ground  the  murderer  had  covered  in  going 
to  the  pit.  The  body  had  been  carried  out  the  back  way, 
across  the  green  which  separated  the  inn  from  the  village, 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  245 

and  up  the  rise  to  the  pit.  The  green  was  now  partly 
under  water,  and  the  track  of  the  footprints  leading  to  the 
rise  had  been  obliterated  by  the  heavy  rains  which  had 
fallen  since,  but  the  soft  surface  retained  the  impression 
of  Colwyn's  footsteps  with  the  same  distinctness  with 
which  it  had  held,  and  afterwards  revealed,  the  track  of 
the  man  who  had  carried  the  corpse  to  the  pit. 

Colwyn  examined  the  pit  closely.  The  edges  were  wet 
and  slippery,  and  in  places  the  earth  had  been  washed 
away.  The  sides,  for  some  distance  down,  were  lined 
with  a  thick  growth  of  shrubs  and  birch.  Colwyn  knelt 
down  on  the  edge  and  peered  into  the  interior  of  the  pit. 
He  tested  the  strength  of  the  climbing  and  creeping  plants 
which  twisted  in  snakelike  growth  in  the  interior.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  it  would  be  a  comparatively  easy 
matter  to  descend  into  the  pit  by  their  support,  so  far  as 
they  went.  But  how  far  did  they  go  ? 

While  he  was  thus  occupied  he  heard  the  sound  of 
footsteps  crashing  through  the  undergrowth  of  the  little 
wood  on  the  other  side  of  the  pit.  A  moment  later  a 
man,  carrying  a  rabbit,  and  followed  by  a  mongrel  dog, 
came  into  view.  It  was  Duney.  He  stared  hard  at  Col- 
wyn and  then  advanced  towards  him  with  a  grin  of 
recognition. 

"Yow  be  lookin'  to  see  how  t'owd  ma'aster  was  hulled 
dune  th'  pit?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  wondering  how  far  the  pit  ran  straight  down," 
replied  Colwyn.  "It  seems  to  take  a  slight  slope  a  little 
way  down.  Does  it?" 

"I  doan't  know  narthin'  about  th'  pit,  and  I  doan't  want 
to,"  replied  Mr.  Duney,  backing  away  with  a  slightly 
pale  face.  "Doan't  yow  meddle  wi'  un,  ma'aster.  It's  a 
quare  place,  thissun." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  it?" 


246  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"Did  you  never  hear  that  th'  pit's  haunted?  Like 
enough  nobody'd  tell  yow.  Folk  hereabowts  aren't  ower- 
fond  of  talkin'  of  th'  White  Lady  of  th'  Shrieking  Pit, 
for  fear  it  should  bring  un  bad  luck." 

"I've  been  hearing  a  little  about  her  to-day.  Is  she 
any  relation  of  Black  Shuck,  the  ghost  dog  you  were 
telling  me  about?" 

"It's  no  larfin'  matter,  ma'aster.  You  moind  the  day 
me  and  Billy  Backlos  come  and  towld  yow  about  us 
seein'  that  chap  on  th'  edge  of  yon  wood  that  night? 
Well,  just  befower  we  seed  un  we  heerd  th'  rummiest 
kind  of  noise — summat  atween  a  moan  and  a  shriek, 
comin'  from  this  'ere  pit.  I  reckon,  from  what's  hap- 
pened to  that  chap  Ronald  since,  that  it  wor  the  White 
Lady  of  th'  Pit  we  heered.  It's  lucky  for  us  we  didn't 
see  un." 

"I  remember  at  the  time  you  mentioned  something 
about  it." 

"Ay,  she  be  a  terr'ble  bad  sperrit,"  said  Mr.  Duney, 
wagging  his  head  unctuously.  "She  comes  out  of  this 
yare  pit  wheer  t'owd  man  was  chucked,  and  wanders 
about  the  wood  and  th'  rise,  a-yellin'  somefin  awful. 
It's  nowt  to  hear  her — we've  all  heerd  her  for  that  mat- 
ter— but  to  see  her  is  to  meet  a  bloody  and  violent  end 
within  the  month.  That's  why  they  call  this  'ere  pit 
'the  Shrieking  Pit.'  I'm  thinkin'  that  owd  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe,  who  was  allus  fond  of  walkin'  up  this  way  at 
nights,  met  her  one  night,  and  that'll  account  for  his 
own  bloody  end.  And  it's  my  belief  that  she  appeared  to 
the  young  chap  who  was  hidin'  in  th'  woods  the  night  we 
saw  un.  And  look  what's  happened  to  un!  He's  got  to 
be  hanged,  which  is  a  violent  end,  thow  p'r'aps  not 
bloody." 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  247 

"If  that's  the  local  belief,  I  wonder  anybody  went 
down  into  the  pit  to  recover  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  body." 

"Nobody  wouldn't  'a'  gone  down  but  Herward.  I 
wouldn't  'a'  gone  down  for  untowd  gowd,  but  Herward 
comes  from  th'  Broads,  and  don't  know  nartin'  about 
this  part  of  the  ma'shes.  Besides,  he  ain't  no  Christian, 
down't  care  for  no  ghosts  nor  sperrits.  I've  often  heerd 
un  say  so." 

"Is  it  true  that  the  White  Lady  has  been  seen  since 
Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  murdered?" 

"She's  been  heered,  shure  enough.  Billy  Backlos,  who 
lives  closest  to  the  rise,  was  a-tellin'  us  in  the  Anchor 
bar  that  she  woke  him  up  two  nights  arter  th'  murder,  a- 
yowlin'  like  an  old  tomcat,  but  Billy  knew  it  worn't  a 
cat — it  weer  far  more  fearsome,  wi  gasps  at  th'  end. 
The  deaf  fat  chap  at  Benson's  arst  him  what  time  this 
might  be.  Billy  said  he  disremembered  th'  time — mebbe 
it  wor  ten  or  a  bit  past.  Then  the  fat  chap  said  it  wor 
just  about  that  time  the  same  night,  as  he  wor  shuttin' 
up,  he  saw  somefin  white  float  up  to  th'  top  of  th'  pit. 
He  thowt  at  th'  time  it  might  be  mist,  thow  there  weren't 
much  mist  on  th'  ma'shes  that  night,  but  now  he  says 
'es  sure  that  it  wor  the  White  Lady  from  the  Shrieking 
Pit  that  he  saw.  'Then  Gawdamighty  help  yow,  poor  fat 
chap,'  says  Billy,  looking  at  him  solemn-like.  'The  hearin' 
of  her  is  narthin',  it's  th'  seein'  o'  her  that's  the  trouble.' 
The  poor  fat  chap  a'  been  nigh  skeered  out  o'  his  wits 
ever  since,  and  nobody  in  th'  village  wud  go  near  th'  pit 
a'  nighttimes — no,  not  for  a  fortin.  I  ain't  sure  as  it's 
safe  to  be  here  even  in  daytimes,  thow  I  never  heered  of 
her  comin'  out  in  the  light."  Mr.  Duney  turned  reso- 
lutely away  from  the  pit,  and  called  to  his  dog,  who  was 
sitting  near  the  edge,  regarding  his  master  with  blinking 
eyes  and  lolling  tongue.  "I'll  be  goin',  in  case  that 


248  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

Queensmead  sees  me  from  th'  village.  I  cot  this  coney 
fair  and  square  in  th'  open,  but  it  be  hard  to  make 
Queensmead  believe  it.  Well,  I'll  be  goin'.  Good 
mornin',  ma'aster." 

He  trudged  away  across  the  rise,  with  his  dog  follow- 
ing at  his  heels.  Colwyn  was  about  to  turn  away  also, 
when  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  scrap  of  stained  and  dis- 
coloured paper  lying  near  the  edge  of  the  pit,  where  the 
rain  had  washed  away  some  of  the  earth.  He  stooped, 
and  picked  it  up.  It  was  a  slip  of  white  paper,  about 
five  inches  long,  and  perhaps  three  inches  in  width,  quite 
blank,  but  with  a  very  apparent  watermark,  consisting 
of  a  number  of  parallel  waving  lines,  close  together, 
running  across  the  surface.  Although  the  watermark 
was  an  unusual  one,  it  seemed  strangly  familiar  to  Col- 
wyn, who  tried  to  recall  where  he  had  seen  it  before. 
But  memory  is  a  tricky  thing.  Although  Colwyn's  mem- 
ory instantly  recognised  the  watermark  on  the  paper,  he 
could  not,  for  the  moment,  recollect  where  he  had  seen 
it,  though  it  seemed  as  familiar  to  him  as  the  face  of 
some  old  acquaintance  whose  name  he  had  temporarily 
forgotten.  Colwyn  ultimately  gave  up  the  effort  for  the 
time  being,  and  placed  the  piece  of  paper  in  his  pocket- 
book,  knowing  that  memory  would,  sooner  or  later,  per- 
form unconsciously  the  effort  it  refused  to  make  when 
asked. 

Colwyn  spent  the  afternoon  in  another  solitary  walk, 
and  darkness  had  set  in  before  he  returned  to  the  village. 
As  he  reached  the  inn  he  glanced  towards  the  hut  circles, 
and  was  startled  to  see  something  white  move  slowly  along 
by  the  edge  of  the  Shrieking  Pit  and  vanish  in  the  wood. 
There  was  something  so  weird  and  ghostly  in  the  spec- 
tacle that  Colwyn  was  momentarily  astounded  by  it. 
Then  his  eye  fell  on  the  sea  mist  which  covered  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  249 

marshes  in  a  white  shroud,  and  he  smiled  slightly.  It 
was  not  the  White  Lady  of  the  Shrieking  Pit  he  had 
seen,  but  a  spiral  of  mist,  floating  across  the  rise. 

The  sight  brought  back  to  his  mind  the  stories  he  had 
heard  that  day,  and  when  he  was  seated  at  dinner  a  little 
later  he  casually  asked  Charles  if  he  believed  in  ghosts. 
The  fat  man,  with  a  sudden  uplifting  of  his  black  eyes, 
as  though  to  ascertain  whether  Colwyn  was  speaking 
seriously,  replied  that  he  did  not. 

"I'm  surprised  to  hear  of  your  scepticism,  Charles, 
for  I'm  told  that  the  apparition  from  the  pit — the  White 
Lady,  as  she  is  called — has  favoured  you  with  a  special 
appearance,"  said  Colwyn,  in  a  bantering  tone. 

"I  see  what  you  mean  now,  sir.  I  didn't  understand 
you  at  first.  It  was  like  this :  some  of  the  villagers  were 
talking  about  this  ghost  in  the  bar  a  few  nights  back,  and 
one  or  two  of  the  villagers,  who  all  firmly  believed  in  it, 
declared  that  they  had  heard  her  wandering  about  the 
previous  night,  moaning  and  shrieking,  as  is  supposed  to 
be  her  custom.  I,  more  by  way  of  a  joke  than  anything 
else,  told  them  I  had  seen  something  white  on  the  rise 
the  previous  night,  when  I  was  shutting  up  the  inn.  But 
the  whole  village  has  got  it  into  their  heads  that  I  saw 
the  White  Lady,  and  they  think  because  I've  seen  her 
I'm  a  doomed  man.  The  country  folk  round  about  here 
are  an  ignorant  and  superstitious  lot,  sir." 

"And  did  you  actually  see  anything,  Charles,  the  night 
you  speak  of?" 

"I  saw  something,  sir — something  long  and  white — like 
a  moving  white  pillar,  if  I  may  so  express  myself.  While 
I  looked  it  vanished  into  the  woods." 

"It  was  probably  mist.  I  saw  something  similar  this 
evening !" 

"Very  likely,  sir.    I  do  not  think  it  was  a  ghost." 


250  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

Colwyn  did  not  pursue  the  subject  further,  though  he 
was  struck  by  the  wide  difference  between  Charles'  ac- 
count of  the  incident  and  that  given  to  him  by  Duney  at 
the  pit  that  afternoon. 

When  Charles  had  cleared  the  table  Colwyn  sat  smok- 
ing and  thinking  until  late.  After  he  was  sure  that  the 
rest  of  the  inmates  of  the  inn  had  retired,  he  went  to 
the  kitchen  and  took  the  key  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room 
from  the  hook  of  the  dresser.  When  he  reached  his  own 
bedroom,  his  first  act  was  to  push  back  the  wardrobe  and 
open  the  trap  door  he  had  discovered  the  previous  night. 
He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  found  that  the  hour  was  a 
little  after  eleven.  He  decided  to  wait  for  half  an  hour 
before  carrying  out  the  experiment  he  contemplated.  By 
midnight  he  would  be  fairly  safe  from  the  fear  of  dis- 
covery. He  lay  down  on  his  bed  to  pass  the  intervening 
time,  but  he  was  so  tired  that  he  fell  asleep  almost  im- 
mediately. 

He  awakened  with  a  start,  and  sat  up,  staring  into  the 
black  darkness.  For  a  moment  or  two  he  did  not  realise 
his  surroundings,  then  the  sound  of  stealthy  footsteps 
passing  his  door  brought  him  back  to  instant  wakeful- 
ness.  The  footsteps  halted — outside  his  door,  it  seemed 
to  Colwyn.  There  followed  the  sound  of  a  hand  fumbling 
with  a  lock,  followed  by  the  shooting  of  a  bolt  and  the 
creaking  of  a  door.  The  truth  flashed  upon  the  detective ; 
somebody  was  entering  the  next  room.  As  he  listened, 
there  was  the  scrape  of  a  match,  and  a  moment  later  a 
narrow  shaft  of  light  streamed  through  the  open  wall- 
door  into  his  room. 

Colwyn  got  noiselessly  off  his  bed  and  looked  through 
the  crack  in  the  inner  small  door  into  the  other  room. 
The  picture  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  narrowed  his 
range  of  vision,  but  through  the  inch  or  so  of  crack  ex- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  251 

tending  beyond  the  picture  he  was  able  to  see  clearly  that 
portion  of  the  adjoining  bedroom  in  which  the  bed  stood. 
Near  the  bed,  examining  with  the  light  of  a  candle  the 
contents  of  the  writing  table  which  stood  alongside  of 
it,  was  Benson,  the  innkeeper. 

He  was  searching  for  something — rummaging  through 
the  drawers  of  the  table,  taking  out  papers  and  envelopes, 
and  tearing  them  open  with  a  furious  desperate  energy, 
pausing  every  now  and  again  to  look  hurriedly  over  his 
shoulder,  as  though  he  expected  to  see  some  apparition 
start  up  from  the  shadowy  corners.  The  search  was 
apparently  fruitless,  for  presently  he  crammed  the  papers 
back  into  the  drawers  with  the  same  feverish  haste,  and, 
walking  rapidly  across  the  room,  passed  out  of  the  view 
of  the  watcher  on  the  other  side,  for  the  picture  which 
hung  on  the  inside  wall  prevented  Colwyn  seeing  beyond 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  Although  the  innkeeper  could  not 
now  be  seen,  the  sound  of  his  stealthy  quick  movements, 
and  the  flickering  lights  cast  by  the  candle  he  carried, 
suggested  plainly  enough  that  he  was  continuing  his 
search  in  that  portion  of  the  room  which  was  not  visible 
through  the  crack. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  came  back  into  Colwyn's  range 
of  vision,  looking  dusty  and  dishevelled,  with  drops  of 
perspiration  starting  from  his  face.  With  a  savage  ges- 
ture, which  was  akin  to  despair,  he  wiped  the  perspira- 
tion from  his  face,  and  tossed  back  his  long  hair  from 
his  forehead.  It  was  the  first  time  Colwyn  had  seen  his 
forehead  uncovered,  and  a  thrill  ran  through  him  as  he 
noticed  a  deep  bruise  high  upon  the  left  temple.  The  next 
moment  the  innkeeper  walked  swiftly  out  of  the  room, 
and  Colwyn  heard  him  close  the  door  softly  behind  him. 

Colwyn  waited  awhile.  When  everything  seemed 
quiet,  he  cautiously  opened  his  door  in  the  dark,  and 


252  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

tried  the  door  of  the  adjoining  room.     It  was  locked. 

The  innkeeper,  then,  had  a  key  to  the  murdered  man's 
room.  But  what  key  was  it — the  key  which  had  been  in 
Mr.  Glenthorpe's  possession  the  night  he  was  murdered 
and  had  not  been  recovered  since?  That  might  be  so, 
but  the  assumption  was  not  a  certain  one.  And  what 
was  the  innkeeper  searching  for  ?  Money  ?  The  treasury 
notes  which  Mr.  Glenthorpe  had  drawn  out  of  the  bank 
the  day  he  was  murdered,  which  had  never  been  found  ? 
Money — notes ! 

By  one  of  those  hidden  and  unaccountable  processes 
of  the  human  brain,  the  association  of  ideas  recalled  to 
Colwyn's  mind  where  he  had  previously  seen  the  peculiar 
watermark  of  waving  lines  visible  on  the  piece  of  paper 
he  had  picked  up  at  the  brink  of  the  pit  that  afternoon : 
it  was  the  Government  watermark  of  the  first  issue  of 
War  Treasury  notes. 

Colwyn  lit  his  bedroom  candle,  and  examined  the  piece 
of  paper  in  his  pocket-book  with  a  new  and  keen  inter- 
est. There  was  no  doubt  about  it,  the  mark  on  the  dirty 
blank  paper  was  undoubtedly  the  Treasury  watermark. 
But  how  came  such  a  mark,  designed  exclusively  for  the 
protection  of  the  Treasury  against  bank-note  forgeries, 
to  appear  on  a  dirty  scrap  of  paper? 

As  he  stood  there,  turning  the  bit  of  paper  over  and 
over,  in  his  hand,  puzzling  over  the  problem,  the  solution 
flashed  into  his  mind — a  solution  so  simple,  yet,  withal, 
so  remarkable,  that  he  hesitated  to  believe  it  possible. 
But  a  further  examination  of  the  paper  removed  his 
doubts.  Chance  had  placed  in  his  hands  another  clue, 
and  the  most  important  he  had  yet  discovered,  to  help 
him  in  the  elucidation  of  the  mystery  of  the  murder  of 
Roger  Glenthorpe.  But  to  verify  that  clue  it  would  be 
necessary  for  him  to  descend  the  pit. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

AN  orange  crescent  of  a  waning  moon  was  sinking  in 
a  black  sky  as  Colwyn  let  himself  quietly  out  of  the  door 
and  took  his  way  up  to  the  rise.  But  the  darkness  of 
the  night  was  fading  fast  before  the  grey  dawn  of  the 
coming  day,  and  in  the  marshes  below  the  birds  were 
beginning  to  stir  and  call  among  the  reeds. 

Colwyn  waited  for  the  first  light  of  dawn  before  at- 
tempting the  descent  of  the  pit.  His  plan  was  to  climb 
down  by  the  creepers  as  far  as  they  went,  and  descend 
the  remainder  of  the  distance  by  the  rope,  which  he  would 
fasten  to  one  of  the  shrubs  growing  in  the  interior.  He 
realised  that  his  chances  of  success  depended  on  the 
slope  of  the  pit  and  the  depth  to  which  the  shrubs  grew, 
but  the  attempt  was  well  worth  making.  Assistance 
would  have  made  the  task  much  easier,  but  publicity 
was  the  thing  Colwyn  desired  most  to  avoid  at  that 
stage  of  his  investigations.  There  would  be  time  enough 
to  consider  the  question  of  seeking  help  if  he  failed  in 
his  individual  effort. 

He  made  his  plans  carefully  before  commencing  the 
descent.  He  first  tested  a  rope  he  had  found  in  the 
lumber  room  of  the  inn;  it  was  thin  but  strong  and 
capable  of  bearing  the  weight  of  a  heavier  man  than 
himself.  The  rope  was  not  more  than  fifteen  feet  in 
length,  but  if  the  hardy  climbing  plants  which  lined  the 
sides  of  the  pit  were  capable  of  supporting  him  ten  or 
twelve  feet  down,  that  kngth  should  be  sufficient  for  his 
purpose.  Having  tested  the  rope  and  coiled  it,  he 

253 


254  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

slipped  it  into  the  right-hand  pocket  of  his  coat  with 
one  end  hanging  out.  Next  he  opened  his  knife,  and 
placed  it  with  a  candle  and  a  box  of  matches  in  his  other 
pocket.  Then  turning  on  his  electric  torch,  he  lowered 
himself  cautiously  into  the  pit  by  the  creepers  which 
fringed  the  surface. 

There  was  no  difficulty  about  the  descent  for  the  first 
eight  or  ten  feet.  Then  the  shrubs  that  had  afforded 
foothold  for  his  feet  suddenly  ceased,  and  the  foot  that 
he  had  thrust  down  for  another  perch  touched  nothing 
but  the  slippery  side  of  the  pit.  Clinging  firmly  with 
his  left  hand  to  the  network  of  vegetation  which  grew 
above  his  head,  Colwyn  flashed  his  electric  torch  into 
the  blackness  of  the  pit  beneath  him.  One  or  two  long 
tendrils  of  the  climbing  plants  which  grew  higher  up 
dangled  like  pendulous  snakes,  but  the  vegetable  growth 
ceased  at  that  point  Beneath  him  the  naked  sides  of  the 
pit  gleamed  sleek  and  wet  in  the  rays  of  the  torch. 

Pulling  himself  up  a  little  way  to  gain  a  securer  foot- 
ing, Colwyn  took  the  coil  of  rope  from  his  pocket,  and 
selecting  a  strong  withe  which  hung  near  him,  sought  to 
fasten  the  end  of  the  rope  to  it.  It  took  him  some  time 
to  do  this  with  the  hand  he  had  at  liberty,  but  at  length 
he  accomplished  it  to  his  satisfaction,  and  then  he  allowed 
the  coils  of  the  rope  to  fall  into  the  pit.  He  next  essayed 
to  test  the  strength  of  the  support,  by  pulling  at  it.  To 
his  disappointment,  his  first  vigorous  tug  snapped  the 
withe  to  which  the  rope  was  attached.  He  tied  the  rope 
to  a  stronger  growth,  but  with  no  better  result:  the 
growths  seemed  brittle,  and  incapable  of  bearing  a  great 
strain  when  tested  separately.  It  was  the  twisted  net- 
work of  the  withes  and  twigs  which  gave  the  climbing 
plants  inside  the  pit  sufficient  toughness  to  support  his 
weight.  Taken  singly,  they  had  very  little  strength. 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  255 

Colwyn  reluctantly  realised  that  it  would  be  folly  to  en- 
deavour to  attempt  the  further  descent  of  the  pit  by  their 
frail  support,  and  he  decided  to  relinquish  the  attempt. 

As  he  was  about  to  ascend,  the  light  of  the  torch 
brought  into  view  that  part  of  the  pit  to  which  he  was 
clinging,  and  he  noticed  that  the  testing  of  the  withes 
had  torn  away  a  portion  of  the  leafy  screen,  revealing 
the  black  and  slimy  surface  of  the  pit's  side.  Colwyn 
was  amazed  to  see  a  small  peg,  with  a  fishing  line  attached 
to  it,  sticking  in  the  bare  earth  thus  exposed.  Somebody 
had  been  down  the  pit  and  placed  it  there — recently, 
judging  by  the  appearance  of  the  peg,  which  was  clean 
and  newly  cut.  What  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  line, 
which  dangled  in  the  darkness  of  the  pit?  A  better  hid- 
ing place  for  anything  valuable  could  not  have  been  de- 
vised. The  thin  fishing  line  was  indiscernible  against 
the  slimy  side  of  the  pit,  and  Colwyn  realised  that  he 
would  never  have  discovered  it  had  it  not  been  for  the 
lucky  accident  which  had  exposed  the  peg  to  which  the 
line  was  anchored.  A  place  of  concealment  chosen  at 
the  expense  of  so  much  trouble  and  risk  indicated  some- 
thing well  worth  concealing,  and  it  was  with  a  strong 
premonition  of  what  was  suspended  down  the  pit  that  the 
detective,  taking  a  firmer  hold  of  the  twining  tendrils 
above  his  head,  began  to  haul  up  the  line.  The  weight 
at  the  end  was  slight;  the  line  came  up  readily  enough, 
foot  after  foot  running  through  his  hand,  and  then, 
finally,  a  small  oblong  packet,  firmly  fastened  and  knotted 
to  the  end  of  the  line. 

Colwyn  examined  the  packet  by  the  light  of  the  torch. 
It  was  a  man's  pocket-book  of  black  morocco  leather,  a 
large  and  serviceable  article,  thick  and  heavy.  The  de- 
tective did  not  need  the  information  conveyed  by  the 
initials  "R.  G."  stamped  in  silver  lettering  on  one  side, 


256  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

to  enlighten  him  as  to  the  owner  of  the  pocket-book  and 
what  it  contained. 

Removing  the  peg  from  the  earth,  Colwyn  was  about 
to  place  the  pocket-book  and  the  line  in  his  pocket, 
but  on  second  thoughts  he  restored  the  peg  to  its 
former  position,  and  endeavoured  to  untie  the  knots 
by  which  the  pocket-book  was  fastened  to  the  line. 
It  was  difficult  to  do  this  with  one  hand,  but,  by 
placing  the  pocket-book  in  his  pocket,  and  picking  at 
the  knots  one  by  one,  he  at  length  unfastened  it  from  the 
line.  He  tied  his  own  pocket-book  to  the  end  of  the  line, 
and  dropped  it  back  into  the  pit.  He  next  replaced  the 
greenery  torn  from  the  spot  where  the  peg  rested.  When 
he  had  restored,  as  far  as  he  could,  the  original  appear- 
ance of  the  hiding  place,  he  ascended  swiftly  to  the  sur- 
face. 

The  first  act,  on  reaching  the  fresh  air,  was  to  examine 
the  contents  of  the  pocket-book.  As  he  anticipated,  it 
was  crammed  full  of  notes  of  the  first  Treasury  issue. 
He  did  not  take  them  out  to  count  them ;  a  rook,  watch- 
ing him  curiously  from  the  edge  of  the  wood,  warned 
him  of  the  danger  of  human  eyes. 

Here,  then,  was  the  end  of  his  investfgations,  and  a 
discovery  which  would  necessitate  his  departure  from  the 
inn  sooner  than  he  had  anticipated.  Nothing  remained 
for  him  to  do  but  to  acquaint  the  authorities  with  the 
fresh  facts  he  had  brought  to  light,  indicate  the  man  to 
whom  those  facts  pointed,  and  endeavour  to  see  righted 
the  monstrous  act  of  injustice  which  had  condemned  an 
innocent  man  to  the  ignominy  of  a  shameful  death.  The 
sooner  that  task  was  commenced  the  better.  The  law 
was  swift  to  grasp  and  slow  to  release,  and  many  were 
the  formalities  to  be  gone  through  before  the  conviction 
of  a  wrongly  convicted  man  could  be  quashed,  especially 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  257 

in  a  grave  charge  like  murder.  Only  on  the  most  con- 
vincing fresh  evidence  could  the  jury's  verdict  be  upset, 
and  none  knew  better  than  Colwyn  that  such  evidence 
had  not  yet  been  obtained.  But  the  additional  facts  dis- 
covered during  his  second  visit  to  the  inn,  if  not  in  them- 
selves sufficient  to  upset  the  verdict  against  Penreath, 
nevertheless  threw  an  entirely  new  light  on  the  crime, 
which,  if  speedily  followed  up,  would  prove  Penreath's 
innocence  by  revealing  the  actual  murderer.  The  only 
question  was  whether  the  police  would  use  the  clues  he 
was  going  to  place  in  their  hands  in  the  manner  he 
wished  them  to  be  used.  If  they  didn't — but  Colwyn 
refused  to  contemplate  that  possibility.  His  mind  re- 
verted to  the  chief  constable  of  Norfolk.  He  felt  he  was 
on  firm  ground  in  believing  that  Mr.  Cromering  would 
act  promptly  once  he  was  certain  that  there  had  been  a 
miscarriage  of  justice  in  the  Glenthorpe  case. 

It  would  be  necessary  to  arrange  his  departure  from 
the  inn  in  such  a  manner  as  not  to  arouse  suspicion,  and 
also  to  have  the  pit  watched  in  case  any  attempt  was 
made  to  recover  the  money  he  had  found  that  morning. 
Colwyn,  after  some  consideration,  decided  to  invoke  the 
aid  of  Police  Constable  Queensmead.  His  brief  asso- 
ciation with  Queensmead  had  convinced  him  that  the 
village  constable  was  discreet  and  intelligent. 

It  was  still  very  early  as  he  descended  to  the  village 
and  sought  the  constable's  house.  His  knock  at  the 
door  was  not  immediately  answered,  but  after  the  lapse 
of  a  minute  or  two  the  door  was  unbolted,  and  the  con- 
stable's face  appeared.  When  he  saw  who  his  visitor 
was  he  asked  to  be  excused  while  he  put  on  some  clothes. 
He  was  back  speedily,  and  ushered  Colwyn  into  the 
room  in  which  he  did  his  official  business. 

"Queensmead,"  said  the  detective  earnestly,  "I  have 


258  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

to  go  to  Norwich,  and  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me 
in  my  absence.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something  in  strict 
confidence.  Fresh  facts  have  come  to  light  in  the  Glen- 
thorpe  case.  You  remember  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  money, 
which  was  supposed  to  have  been  stolen  by  Penreath,  but 
which  was  never  recovered.  I  found  it  this  morning 
down  the  pit  where  the  body  was  thrown." 

"How  did  you  get  down  the  pit?"  asked  Queensmead. 

"I  climbed  down  the  creepers  as  far  as  they  went.  I 
had  a  rope  for  the  rest  of  the  descent,  but  it  wasn't 
needed,  for  I  found  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  pocket-book  sus- 
pended by  a  cord  about  ten  feet  down.  Here  it  is." 

Queensmead  scrutinised  the  pocket-book  and  its  con- 
tents, and  on  handing  it  back  remarked: 

"Do  you  think  Penreath  returned  and  concealed  him- 
self in  the  wood  to  recover  these  notes?" 

Colwyn  was  struck  by  the  penetration  of  this  remark. 

"No,  quite  the  contrary,"  he  replied.  "Your  deduction 
is  drawn  from  an  isolated  fact.  It  has  to  be  taken  in 
conjunction  with  other  fresh  facts  which  have  come  to 
light — facts  which  put  an  entirely  fresh  complexion  on 
the  case,  and  tend  to  exculpate  Penreath." 

"I  would  rather  not  know  what  they  are,  then,"  re- 
plied Queensmead  quietly.  "It  is  better  I  should  not 
know  too  much.  You  see,  it  might  be  awkward,  in  more 
ways  than  one,  if  things  are  turning  out  as  you  say.  What 
is  it  you  want  me  to  do  ?" 

"I  want  you  to  watch  the  pit  on  the  rise  while  I  am 
away,  chiefly  at  night.  It  is  of  paramount  importance 
that  the  man  whom  I  believe  to  be  the  thief  and  murderer 
should  not  be  allowed  to  escape  in  my  absence.  I  do  not 
think  that  he  has  any  suspicions,  so  far,  and  it  is  prac- 
tically certain  nobody  saw  me  descend  the  pit.  But  if 
he  should,  by  any  chance,  go  down  to  the  pit  for  his 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  259 

money,  and  find  it  gone,  he  would  know  he  had  been  dis- 
covered, and  instantly  seek  safety  in  flight.  That  must 
be  prevented." 

"How?" 

"You  must  arrest  him." 

"I  do  not  see  how  that  can  be  done,"  replied  Queens- 
mead.  "I  cannot  take  upon  myself  to  arrest  a  man 
simply  for  descending  the  pit.  It's  not  against  the  law." 

"In  order  to  get  over  that  difficulty  I  left  my  own 
pocket-book  tied  to  the  cord  in  the  pit,"  replied  Colwyn. 
"It's  a  black  leather  one,  like  Mr.  Glenthorpe's.  If  the 
thief  goes  down  he  is  hardly  likely  to  discover  the  dif- 
ference till  he  gets  to  the  surface.  You  can  arrest  him 
for  the  theft  of  my  pocket-book,  which  contains  a  little 
money.  You  can  make  a  formal  entry  of  my  complaint 
of  my  loss." 

"Well,  I've  heard  that  you  were  a  cool  customer,  Mr. 
Colwyn,  and  now  I  believe  it,"  replied  Queensmead, 
laughing  outright.  "Fancy  thinking  out  a  plan  like  that 
down  in  the  pit !  But  as  you've  made  the  complaint  it's 
my  duty  to  enter  it,  and  keep  a  look  out  for  your  lost 
pocket-book.  I'll  watch  the  pit,  and  if  anybody  goes 
down  it  I'll  arrest  him." 

"If  the  attempt  is  made  it  will  not  be  in  daytime — it 
will  be  in  the  night,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  I  want 
you  to  watch  the  pit  at  night.  The  life  of  an  innocent 
man  may  depend  on  your  vigilance.  It  will  only  be  for 
two  nights,  or  three  at  the  most.  I  shall  certainly  return 
within  three  days." 

"You  may  depend  on  me,"  replied  the  constable.  "I 
will  go  to  the  pit  as  soon  as  it  grows  dark,  and  watch  from 
the  edge  of  the  wood  till  daylight." 

'Thank  you,"  said  Colwyn.  "I  felt  sure  you  would  do 
it  when  you  knew  what  was  at  stake.  I  have  an  idea 


26o  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

that  your  vigil  will  not  be  disturbed,  but  I  want  to  be 
on  the  safe  side.  I  suppose  you  are  not  afraid  of  the 
ghost?" 

"You  have  heard  of  the  White  Lady  of  the  Shrieking 
Pit?"  said  Queensmead,  looking  at  the  other  curiously. 

"I  have  heard  of  her,  but  I  have  not  heard  her,  or  seen 
her.  Have  you  ?" 

"I  cannot  say  I  have,  but  I  live  at  the  wrong  end  of 
the  village,  and  I  never  go  out  at  night.  But  there  are 
plenty  of  villagers,  principally  customers  of  the  Anchor, 
who  are  prepared  to  take  their  Bible  oath  that  they  have 
heard  her — if  not  seen  her.  The  White  Lady  has  ter- 
rorised the  whole  village — since  the  murder." 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  the  last  three  words 
which  attracted  the  detective's  attention. 

"There  was  not  much  talk  of  the  ghost  before  the  mur- 
der, then?"  he  asked. 

"Very  little.  I  have  been  stationed  here  for  two  years, 
and  hardly  knew  of  its  existence.  Of  course,  it's  a  deep- 
rooted  local  tradition,  and  every  villager  has  heard  the 
story  in  childhood,  and  most  of  them  believe  it.  Many 
of  them  actually  think  they  have  heard  moans  and  shrieks 
coming  from  the  rise  during  this  last  week  or  so.  It's  a 
lonely  sort  of  place,  with  very  little  to  talk  about;  it 
doesn't  take  much  to  get  a  story  like  that  going  round." 

"Then  you  think  there  is  some  connection  between  the 
reappearance  of  the  ghost  and  the  hiding  of  the  money 
in  the  pit  it  is  supposed  to  haunt?" 

"It's  not  my  business  to  draw  inferences  of  that  kind, 
sir.  I  leave  that  to  my  betters,  if  they  think  fit  to  do  so. 
I  am  only  the  village  constable." 

"But  you've  already  inferred  that  the  legend  has  been 
spread  round  again  by  means  of  gossip  at  the  Anchor. 
Was  it  started  there?" 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  261 

"It  was  and  it  wasn't.  A  fool  of  a  fellow  named 
Duney  burst  into  the  tap-room  one  night  and  said  he 
had  heard  the  White  Lady  shrieking,  and  Charles — that's 
the  waiter — declared  that  he  had  seen  something  white 
the  same  night.  That  was  the  start  of  the  business." 

"So  I  have  heard.  But  what  has  kept  it  going  ever 
since  ?" 

"Well,  from  what  I  hear — I  never  go  to  the  inn  myself, 
but  a  local  policeman  learns  all  the  gossip  in  a  small  place 
like  this — the  subject  is  brought  up  in  the  bar-room 
every  evening,  either  by  the  innkeeper  or  Charles,  and 
discussed  till  closing  time,  when  the  silly  villagers  go 
home,  huddled  together  like  a  flock  of  sheep,  not  daring 
to  look  round  for  fear  of  seeing  the  White  Lady." 

"Do  Benson  and  Charles  both  believe  in  the  ghost?" 

"It  seems  as  if  they  do."  The  constable's  voice  was 
noncommittal. 

As  Colwyn  rose  to  go,  Queensmead  looked  at  him  with 
a  trace  of  hesitation  in  his  manner. 

"Perhaps  you'd  answer  me  a  question,  sir,"  he  said  in 
a  low  tone,  as  though  afraid  of  being  overheard.  "That 
greenery  that  grows  inside  the  pit,  by  which  you  climbed 
down,  will  it  support  a  heavy  weight?" 

"It  will  hold  a  far  heavier  man  than  you,  if  you  are 
thinking  of  making  the  descent,"  said  Colwyn  laughingly. 
"It's  a  case  of  unity  is  strength.  The  tendrils  of  the 
climbing  plants  are  so  twisted  together  that  they  are  as 
tough  as  ropes." 

"Thank  you.  What  time  will  you  reach  here  when  you 
return?" 

"Probably  not  before  dusk,  but  certainly  by  then.  In 
the  meantime,  of  course,  you  will  not  breathe  a  word  of 
this  to  anybody." 


262  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"I  am  not  likely  to  do  that.  I  shall  keep  a  close  watch 
on  the  pit  till  I  see  you  again." 

"That's  right.     Good  day." 

"Good  day,  sir." 

It  still  wanted  a  few  minutes  to  seven  when  Colwyn 
returned  to  the  inn.  The  front  door  was  as  he  had  left 
it,  closed,  but  unlocked.  The  house  was  silent:  nobody 
was  yet  stirring.  He  locked  the  door  after  him,  and 
proceeded  to  his  room,  pleased  to  think  he  had  not  been 
seen  going  or  coming.  His  first  act  on  reaching  his  room 
was  to  lock  the  door  and  count  the  money  in  the  pocket- 
book.  There  was  £305 — £300  in  single  Treasury  notes, 
and  one  five-pound  note.  The  case  contained  nothing 
else  except  a  faded  newspaper  clipping  on  Fossil  Sponges. 
Colwyn  replaced  the  notes,  and  put  the  case  in  an  inside 
breast  pocket.  He  next  performed  th«  best  kind  of  toilet 
the  primitive  resources  of  the  inn  permitted,  and  occupied 
himself  for  an  hour  or  so  in  completing  his  notes  of  the 
case. 

While  he  was  breakfasting  he  saw  the  innkeeper  pass- 
ing the  half-open  door,  and  he  called  him  into  the  room 
and  told  him  to  let  him  have  his  bill  without  delay,  as 
he  was  returning  to  Durrington  that  morning.  The  inn- 
keeper made  no  comment  on  hearing  his  guest's  intention, 
and  Charles  brought  in  the  bill  a  little  later.  Colwyn, 
as  he  paid  it,  casually  asked  Charles  if  he  happened  to 
know  the  time  of  the  morning  trains  from  Heathfield. 

"There's  one  to  Durrington  at  eleven  o'clock,  sir,"  said 
the  waiter,  consulting  a  greasy  time-table.  "There's  one 
at  9 :3O,  but  it's  a  good  three  miles  to  the  station,  and  you 
could  not  catch  it  because  there's  no  way  of  getting  there 
except  by  walking,  as  you  know,  sir." 

"The  eleven  o'clock  train  will  suit  me,"  said  Colwyn, 
consulting  his  watch. 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  263 

"Shall  I  go  and  get  your  bag,  sir  ?" 

"No,  thanks,  I've  not  packed  it  yet." 

Colwyn  went  upstairs  shortly  afterwards  determined  to 
pack  his  bag  and  leave  the  place  as  soon  as  possible.  As 
he  was  about  to  enter  his  room  he  saw  Peggy  appear  at 
the  end  of  the  passage.  She  looked  at  him  with  a 
timid,  wistful  smile,  and  made  a  step  towards  him,  as 
though  she  would  speak  to  him.  Colwyn  pretended  not  to 
see  her,  and  hurried  into  his  room  and  shut  the  door. 
How  could  he  tell  her  what  she  had  so  innocently  done 
in  recalling  him  to  the  inn?  How  inform  her  what  the 
cost  of  saving  her  lover  would  be  to  her  ?  Somebody  else 
must  break  the  news  to  her,  when  it  came  to  that.  He 
packed  his  things  quickly,  anxious  only  to  leave  a  place 
which  had  grown  repugnant  to  him,  and  to  drop  the  dis- 
simulation which  had  become  hateful.  Never  had  he  so 
acutely  realised  how  little  a  man  is  master  of  his  actions 
when  entangled  in  the  strange  current  of  Destiny  which 
men  label  Chance. 

When  he  emerged  from  the  room  with  his  bag,  Peggy 
was  no  longer  visible.  The  innkeeper  was  standing  in 
the  passage  as  he  went  downstairs,  and  Colwyn  nodded 
to  him  as  he  passed.  He  breathed  easier  in  the  fresh 
morning  air,  and  set  out  briskly  for  the  station. 

He  reached  Heathfield  an  hour  later,  and  found  he  had 
nearly  half  an  hour  to  wait  for  his  train.  The  first  ten 
minutes  of  that  time  he  utilised  despatching  two  tele- 
grams. One  was  to  the  chief  constable  of  Norfolk,  at 
Norwich,  and  the  other  to  Mr.  Oakham,  in  London.  In 
the  latter  telegram  he  indicated  that  fresh  discoveries  had 
come  to  light  in  Penreath's  case,  and  he  asked  the  solicitor 
to  go  as  soon  as  possible  to  Norwich  where  he  would 
await  him  at  his  hotel. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

COLWYN  reached  Durrington  by  midday,  and  proceeded 
to  the  hotel  for  his  letters  and  lunch.  After  a  cold  meal 
served  by  a  shivering  waiter  in  the  chilly  dining  room 
he  went  to  the  garage  where  he  had  left  his  car,  and  set 
out  for  Norwich.  He  arrived  at  the  cathedral  city  late  in 
the  afternoon,  and  drove  to  the  hotel  where  Mr.  Oakham 
had  stayed.  While  engaging  a  room,  he  told  the  clerk 
that  he  expected  Mr.  Oakham  from  London,  and  asked 
to  be  informed  immediately  he  arrived.  After  making 
these  arrangements  the  detective  left  the  hotel  and  went  to 
the  city  library,  where  he  spent  the  next  couple  of  hours 
making  notes  from  legal  statutes  and  the  Criminal  Ap- 
peal Act. 

When  he  returned  to  the  hotel  for  dinner  the  clerk 
informed  him  that  Mr.  Oakham  had  arrived  a  short  time 
previously,  and  had  requested  that  Mr.  Colwyn  would 
join  him  at  dinner.  Colwyn  proceeded  to  the  dining- 
room,  and  saw  Mr.  Oakham  dining  in  solitary  state  at  a 
large  table,  reading  a  London  evening  newspaper  between 
the  courses.  He  looked  up  as  Colwyn  approached,  and 
rose  and  shook  hands. 

"This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,"  said  the  detective. 
"I  hardly  thought  you  would  get  here  before  the  morn- 
ing." 

"I  had  arranged  to  visit  Norwich  to-morrow,  but  in 
view  of  the  urgent  nature  of  your  telegram  I  decided  to 
catch  the  afternoon  train  instead,"  replied  the  solicitor. 
"Will  you  dine  with  me,  Mr.  Colwyn,  and  we  can  talk 
business  afterwards." 

264 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  265 

Colwyn  complied,  and  when  the  meal  was  finished,  Mr. 
Oakham  turned  to  him  with  an  eagerness  which  he  did 
not  attempt  to  conceal,  and  said : 

"Now  for  your  news,  Mr.  Colwyn.  But,  first,  where 
shall  we  talk?" 

"As  well  here  as  anywhere.  There  is  nobody  within 
hearing." 

The  solicitor  followed  his  glance  round  the  almost 
empty  dining-room,  and  nodded  acquiescence.  Drawing 
his  chair  a  little  nearer  the  detective,  he  begged  him  to 
begin. 

"I  have  not  very  much  to  tell  you — at  present.  But 
since  the  conviction  of  your  client,  James  Ronald  Pen- 
reath,  I  have  been  back  to  the  inn  where  the  murder  was 
committed,  and  I  have  discovered  fresh  evidence  which 
strengthens  considerably  my  original  belief  that  Penreath 
is  an  innocent  man.  But  I  have  reached  a  stage  in  my 
investigations  when  I  need  your  assistance  in  completing 
my  task  before  I  go  to  the  authorities  with  my  discov- 
eries. It  is  hardly  necessary  for  me  to  tell  a  man  of 
your  experience  that  it  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  things 
in  the  world  to  upset  a  jury's  verdict  in  a  case  of  murder." 

"What  have  you  discovered  ?" 

"This,  for  one  thing."  Colwyn  produced  the  pocket- 
book,  and  displayed  the  contents  on  the  table.  "This  is 
the  murdered  man's  pocket-book,  containing  the  missing 
notes  which  Penreath  is  supposed  to  have  murdered  him 
for.  The  prosecution  dropped  the  charge  of  robbery,  but 
the  theft  formed  an  important  part  of  the  Crown  theory 
of  the  crime,  as  establishing  motive." 

"Where  did  you  find  this  pocket-book?" 

"Suspended  by  a  piece  of  cord,  half  way  down  the  pit 
where  the  body  was  flung." 

"It's  an  interesting  discovery,"  replied  Mr.  Oakham 


266  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

thoughtfully  tapping  his  nose  with  his  gold-rimmed  eye- 
glasses as  he  stared  at  the  black  pocket-book  on  the  white 
tablecloth.  "Speaking  personally,  it  is  proof  of  what  I 
have  thought  all  along,  that  a  Penreath  of  Twelvetrees 
would  not  commit  a  robbery.  Therefore,  on  that  line 
of  reasoning,  one  could  argue  that  as  Penreath  did  not 
commit  the  robbery,  and  the  Crown  hold  that  the  mur- 
der was  committed  for  the  money,  Penreath  must  be  inno- 
cent. But  the  Crown  is  more  likely  to  hold  that  as  Pen- 
reath threw  the  body  in  the  pit,  he  concealed  the  money 
there  afterwards,  and  was  hiding  in  the  wood  to  recover 
it  when  he  was  arrested.  The  real  point  is,  Mr.  Colwyn, 
can  you  prove  that  it  was  not  Mr.  Penreath  who  placed 
the  money  in  the  pit?" 

"I  believe  I  can  prove,  at  all  events,  that  it  was  not 
Penreath  who  threw  the  body  into  the  pit." 

"You  can !     Then  who  was  it  ?" 

"I  am  not  prepared  to  answer  that  question  at  the 
moment.  During  my  visit  to  the  inn  I  made  a  number 
of  other  discoveries  besides  that  of  the  pocket-book, 
which,  though  slight  in  themselves,  all  fit  in  with  my 
present  theory  of  the  murder.  But  before  disclosing 
them,  I  want  to  complete  my  investigations  by  testing  my 
theory  to  the  uttermost.  It  is  just  possible  that  I  may 
be  wrong,  though  I  do  not  think  so.  When  I  have  taken 
the  additional  step  which  completes  my  investigations,  I 
will  go  to  the  chief  constable,  reconstruct  the  crime  for 
him  as  I  see  it  now,  and  ask  him  to  take  action." 

"Then  why  have  you  sent  for  me  ?" 

"To  help  me  to  complete  my  task.  Part  of  my  theory 
is  that  Penreath  is  deliberately  keeping  silent  to  shield 
some  one  else.  The  solicitor  of  a  convicted  man  has 
access  to  him  even  when  he  is  condemned  to  death.  I 
want  you  to  take  me  with  you  to  see  Penreath." 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  267 

"For  what  purpose  ?" 

"In  order  to  get  him  to  speak." 

"It  would  be  quite  useless."  The  lawyer  spoke  in  some 
agitation.  "I  have  seen  him  twice  since  the  verdict,  and 
implored  him  to  speak  if  he  has  anything  to  say,  but  he 
declared  that  he  had  nothing  to  say." 

"Nevertheless,  I  shall  succeed  where  you  have  failed. 
Penreath  is  an  innocent  man." 

"Then  why  does  he  not  speak  out,  even  now — more  so 
now  than  ever?" 

"He  has  his  reasons,  and  they  seem  sufficient  to  him  to 
keep  him  silent  even  under  the  shadow  of  the  gallows." 

"And  why  do  you  think  he  will  confide  them  to  you, 
when  he  refuses  to  divulge  them  to  his  professional  ad- 
viser?" 

"He  will  not  willingly  reveal  them  to  me.  My  hope  of 
getting  his  story  depends  entirely  upon  my  success  in 
springing  a  surprise  upon  him.  That  is  one  of  my  rea- 
sons for  not  telling  you  more  just  now.  The  mere  fact 
that  you  knew  would  hamper  my  handling  a  difficult  sit- 
uation. The  slightest  involuntary  gesture  or  look  might 
put  him  on  his  guard,  and  the  opportunity  would  be 
lost.  It  is  not  absolutely  essential  that  I  should  gain 
Penreath's  statement  before  going  to  the  police,  but  if 
his  statement  coincides  with  my  theory  of  the  crime  it 
will  strengthen  my  case  considerably  when  I  reconstruct 
the  crime  for  the  police." 

"Your  way  of  doing  business  strikes  me  as  strange,  Mr. 
Colwyn,"  said  the  solicitor  stiffly.  "As  Mr.  Penreath's 
professional  adviser,  surely  I  am  entitled  to  your  fullest 
confidence.  You  are  asking  me  to  behave  in  a  very  un- 
professional way,  and  take  a  leap  in  the  dark.  There 
are  proper  ways  of  doing  things.  I  will  be  frank  with 
you.  I  have  come  to  Norwich  in  order  to  urge  Penreath 


268  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

for  the  last  time  to  permit  me  to  lodge  an  appeal  against 
his  conviction.  That  interview  has  been  arranged  to 
take  place  in  the  morning." 

"Has  he  previously  refused  to  appeal  ?" 

"He  has— twice." 

"May  I  ask  on  what  grounds  you  are  seeking  permis- 
sion to  appeal?" 

"If  he  consents,  my  application  to  the  Registrar  would 
be  made  under  Section  Four  of  the  Criminal  Appeal 
Act,"  was  the  cautious  reply. 

"That  means  you  are  persisting  in  your  original  de- 
fence— that  Penreath  is  guilty,  but  insane.  Therefore 
your  application  for  leave  to  appeal  against  the  sentence 
on  the  ground  of  insanity  only  enables  you  to  appeal  to 
the  Court  to  quash  the  sentence  on  the  ground  that  Pen- 
reath is  irresponsible  for  his  acts.  Even  if  you  succeed 
in  your  appeal  he  will  be  kept  in  gaol  as  a  criminal  luna- 
tic. In  a  word,  you  intend  to  persist  in  a  defence  which, 
as  I  told  you  before  the  trial,  had  very  little  chance  of 
success.  In  my  opinion  it  has  no  more  chance  of  success 
before  the  Court  of  Appeal.  You  have  not  sufficient  evi- 
dence for  a  successful  defence  on  the  grounds  of  insanity. 
The  judge,  in  his  summing  up  at  the  trial,  was  clearly  of 
the  opinion  that  Sir  Henry  Durwood  was  wrong  in  think- 
ing Penreath  insane,  and  he  directed  the  jury  accordingly. 

"In  my  opinion  the  judge  was  right.  I  do  not  think 
Penreath  is  insane,  or  -even  subject  to  fits  of  impulsive 
insanity.  If  you  ask  my  opinion,  I  think  he  is  still  suffer- 
ing from  the  effects  of  shell  shock,  and,  like  many  other 
brave  men  who  have  been  similarly  affected,  he  en- 
deavoured to  conceal  the  fact.  I  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  Penreath's  peculiar  conduct  at  the  Durring- 
ton  hotel,  on  which  Sir  Henry  based  his  theory  of  furor 
epilepticus,  was  nothing  more  than  the  combined  effect 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  269 

of  mental  worry  and  an  air  raid  shock  on  a  previously 
shattered  nervous  system.  Penreath  is  a  sane  man — as 
sane  as  you  or  I — and  my  late  investigations  at  the  scene 
of  the  murder  have  convinced  me  that  he  is  an  innocent 
man  also.  The  question  is,  are  you  going  to  allow  pro- 
fessional etiquette  to  stand  in  the  way  of  proving  his 
innocence  ?" 

"But  you  have  not  shown  me  anything  to  convince  me 
that  he  is  an  innocent  man.  Your  statement  comes  as 
a  great  surprise  to  me,  and  you  cannot  expect  that  I 
should  credit  your  bare  assumption.  It  would  be  ex- 
ceedingly difficult  to  believe  without  the  most  convinc- 
ing proofs,  which  you  have  not  brought  forward.  I  pre- 
pared the  case  for  the  defence  at  the  trial,  and  I  only  per- 
mitted that  defence  to  be  put  forward  because  there  was 
no  other  course — the  evidence  was  so  overwhelming,  and 
Penreath's  obstinate  silence  in  the  face  of  it  pointed  so 
conclusively  to  his  guilt." 

"Nevertheless,  you  were  wrong.  The  question  is,  are 
you  going  to  help  me  undo  that  wrong?" 

"You  have  not  yet  proved  to  me  that  it  is  a  wrong," 
quibbled  the  solicitor. 

"Mr.  Oakham,  let  me  make  this  quite  clear  to  you," 
said  the  detective  sternly.  "I  have  sent  for  you  out  of 
courtesy,  because,  as  I  said  before,  I  like  to  do  things 
in  a  regular  way.  As  you  force  me  to  speak  plainly, 
there  is  another  reason,  which  is  that  I  did  not  wish 
to  make  you  look  small,  or  injure  your  professional  repu- 
tation, by  acting  independently  of  you.  It  would  be  a 
bad  advertisement  for  Oakham  and  Pendules  if  it  got 
abroad — as  it  assuredly  will  if  you  persist  in  your  atti- 
tude— that  an  innpcent  client  of  yours  was  almost  sent 
to  the  gallows  through  your  wrong  defence  at  his  trial. 
It  is  in  your  hands  to  prevent  such  a  scandal  from  be- 


270  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

coming  public  property.  But  if  you  are  going  to  stand 
on  professional  etiquette  it  is  just  as  well  you  should 
understand  that  I  am  quite  prepared  to  act  independently 
of  you.  I  have  sufficient  influence  to  obtain  an  order 
from  the  governor  of  the  gaol  for  an  interview  with  the 
condemned  man,  and  I  shall  do  so.  I  have  discovered 
sufficient  additional  evidence  in  this  case  to  save  Pen- 
reath,  and  I  am  going  to  save  him,  with  or  without  your 
assistance.  You  have  had  your  way — it  was  a  wrong 
way.  Now  I  am  going  to  have  my  way.  I  only  ask 
you  to  trust  me  for  a  few  hours.  After  I  have  seen 
Penreath  you  are  at  liberty  to  accompany  me  to  the  chief 
constable,  to  whom  I  shall  tell  everything.  That  is  my 
last  word." 

"I  will  do  as  you  ask,  Mr.  Colwyn,"  replied  the  solici- 
tor, after  a  short  pause.  "Not  because  I  am  apprehen- 
sive of  the  consequences,  but  because  you  have  convinced 
me  that  it  would  be  foolish  and  wrong  on  my  part  to 
place  any  obstacles  in  the  way  of  establishing  my  client's 
innocence,  even  if  it  is  only  the  smallest  chance.  You 
must  forgive  my  hesitation.  I  am  an  old  man,  and  your 
story  has  been  such  a  shock  that  I  am  unable  to  realise 
it  yet.  But  I  will  not  stand  on  punctilio  when  it  is  a 
question  of  trying  to  save  a  Penreath  of  Twelvetrees 
from  the  gallows.  I  think  I  can  arrange  it  with  the 
governor  of  the  gaol  to  permit  you  to  accompany  me 
when  I  see  Penreath  in  the  morning.  That  interview 
is  to  take  place  at  twelve  o'clock.  We  can  go  together 
from  here  to  the  gaol,  if  that  will  suit  you." 

"That  will  suit  me  excellently.  And  before  that  inter- 
view takes  place  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  tell  me 
the  facts  of  Penreath's  engagement  to  Miss  Willoughby." 

"I  really  know  very  little  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Oakham, 
looking  somewhat  surprised  at  the  question.  I  have 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  271 

heard,  though,  that  Penreath  met  Miss  Willoughby  in 
London  before  the  war,  and  became  engaged  after  a  very 
brief  acquaintance.  Ill-natured  people  say  that  the  girl's 
aunt  threw  her  at  Penreath's  head.  The  aunt  is  a  Mrs. 
Brewer,  a  wealthy  manufacturer's  widow,  a  pushing 
nobody " 

"I  have  met  her." 

"I  had  forgotten.  Well,  you  know  that  type  of 
woman,  with  an  itch  to  get  into  Society.  Perhaps  she 
thought  that  the  marriage  of  her  niece  to  a  Penreath  of 
Twelvetrees  would  open  doors  for  her.  At  any  rate,  I 
remember  there  was  a  great  deal  of  tittle-tattle  at  the 
time  to  the  effect  that  she  manoeuvred  desperately  hard 
to  bring  about  the  engagement.  On  the  other  hand,  there 
can  be  no  harm  in  stating  now  that  Ronald  Penreath's 
father  was  almost  equally  keen  on  that  match  for  mone- 
tary reasons.  The  Penreaths  are  far  from  wealthy. 
From  that  point  of  view  the  match  seemed  suitable 
enough — money  on  one  side,  and  birth  and  breeding  on 
the  other.  I  am  not  sure  that  there  was  very  much  love 
in  the  case,  or  that  the  young  people's  feelings  were 
deeply  involved  on  either  side.  There  is  no  reason  why 
I  should  not  mention  these  things  now,  for  the  match 
has  been  broken  off.  It  was  broken  off  shortly  after 
Penreath's  arrest." 

"By  the  young  lady?" 

"By  the  aunt,  in  her  presence.  It  happened  the  day 
after  they  went  to  Heathfield  to  identify  Penreath.  Mrs. 
Brewer  was  furious  about  the  whole  business  as  soon  as 
she  ascertained  that  it  wasn't  a  mistake,  as  she  had  hoped 
at  first,  and  that  there  was  likely  to  be  much  unpleasant 
publicity  over  it.  She  said  she  would  never  be  able  to 
hold  up  her  head  in  Society  after  the  disgrace,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  It  all  came  about  through  my  asking 


272  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

Miss  Willoughby  if  she  would  like  to  see  her  lover  while 
he  was  awaiting  trial.  The  girl  replied,  coldly  enough, 
that  it  would  be  time  enough  to  see  him  after  he  had 
cleared  himself  of  the  dreadful  charge  hanging  over  his 
head.  By  the  way  she  spoke  she  seemed  to  think  her- 
self a  deeply  injured  person,  as  perhaps  she  was.  Then 
the  aunt  had  her  say,  and  insisted  that  I  must  tell  Pen- 
reath  the  engagement  was  broken  off.  I  asked  Miss 
Willoughby  if  that  was  her  wish  also,  and  she  replied  that 
it  was.  I  told  Penreath  the  following  day,  but  I  do  not 
think  that  it  worried  him  very  much." 

"I  do  not  think  it  would,"  replied  Colwyn  with  a  smile. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

COLWYN  found  Mr.  Oakham  awaiting  him  in  the  hotel 
lobby,  a  little  before  eleven  the  following  morning,  to 
inform  him  that  the  necessary  arrangements  had  been 
made  to  enable  him  to  be  present  at  his  interview  with 
Penreath.  Colwyn  forbore  to  ask  him  on  what  pretext 
he  had  obtained  the  gaol  governor's  consent  to  his  pres- 
ence, but  merely  signified  that  he  was  ready.  Mr.  Oak- 
ham  replied  that  they  had  better  go  at  once,  and  asked 
the  porter  to  call  a  taxi. 

On  arriving  at  the  gaol  they  passed  through  the  double 
entrance  gates,  Mr.  Oakham  turned  to  a  door  on  the  left 
just  within  the  gates,  and  entered.  The  door  opened  into 
a  plainly  furnished  office,  with  walls  covered  with  prison 
regulations.  Behind  a  counter,  at  a  stand-up  desk  oppo- 
site the  door,  a  tall  burly  man  in  a  uniform  of  blue  and 
silver  was  busily  writing  in  a  large  ledger.  Ranged  in 
rows,  on  hooks  alongside  him,  were  bunches  of  immense 
keys,  and  as  he  turned  to  attend  to  Oakham  and  Colwyn 
another  bunch  of  similar  keys  could  be  seen  dangling  at 
his  side.  Mr.  Oakham  explained  the  purpose  of  their 
visit,  and  produced  the  order  for  the  interview.  The 
functionary  in  blue  and  silver,  who  was  the  entrance 
gaoler,  perused  it  attentively,  and  pushed  over  two  forms 
for  the  solicitor  and  the  detective  to  fill  in.  It  was  the 
last  formality  that  the  law  insisted  on — a  grim  form  of 
visiting  card  whereon  the  visitor  inscribes  his  name  and 
business,  which  is  sent  to  the  condemned  man,  who  must 
give  his  consent  to  the  interview  before  it  is  granted. 

273 


274  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

When  Mr.  Oakham  and  Colwyn  had  filled  in  their 
forms  the  entrance  gaoler  took  them  and  pulled  a  rope. 
Somewhere  in  a  corridor  a  bell  clanged,  and  a  moment 
afterwards  a  gaoler  opened  a  small  door  on  the  other 
side  of  the  counter.  The  entrance  gaoler  gave  him  the 
forms,  and  he  disappeared  with  them.  There  ensued  a 
long  period  of  waiting,  and  nearly  half  an  hour  elapsed 
before  he  reappeared  again,  accompanied  by  a  warder. 
The  blue  and  silver  functionary  silently  lifted  the  flap 
of  the  counter,  and  beckoned  Mr.  Oakham  and  Colwyn 
to  accompany  the  warder  through  the  small  door  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room. 

They  went  through  and  the  bell  clanged  once  more  as 
the  door  closed  behind  them.  The  warder  took  them 
along  a  corridor  to  a  door  at  the  farther  end,  and  ushered 
them  into  a  room — a  large  apartment,  not  unlike  a  board 
room,  furnished  with  a  table  and  chairs  ranged  on  each 
side.  It  was  the  governor  of  the  gaol's  room,  where  the 
interview  was  to  take  place.  Colwyn  took  one  of  the 
chairs  at  the  table,  Mr.  Oakham  took  another,  and  silently 
they  awaited  the  coming  of  the  condemned  man. 

Another  quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed  before  the  door 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room  opened,  and  Penreath  ap- 
peared between  two  warders.  They  conducted  him  to 
the  table,  and  placed  a  chair  for  him.  With  a  quick 
glance  at  his  visitors  he  sat  down,  and  the  warders  seated 
themselves  on  each  side  of  him.  The  warder  who  had 
brought  the  visitors  in  then  nodded  to  Mr.  Oakham,  as 
an  indication  that  the  interview  might  begin. 

In  the  brief  glance  that  the  young  man  cast  at  his 
visitors  Colwyn  observed  both  calmness  of  mind  and  self- 
possession.  Although  deep  shadows  under  the  eyes  and 
the  tenseness  of  the  mucles  round  the  mouth  revealed 
sleepless  nights  and  mental  agony,  Penreath's  face 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  275 

showed  no  trace  of  insanity  or  the  guilty  consciousness 
of  evil  deeds,  but  had  the  serene  expression  of  a  man 
who  had  fought  his  battle  and  won  it. 

Mr.  Oakham  began  the  interview  with  him  in  a  dry 
professional  way,  as  though  it  were  an  interview  between 
solicitor  and  client  in  the  sanctity  of  a  private  room,  with 
no  hearers.  NAnd,  indeed,  the  prison  warders  sitting 
there  with  the  impassive  faces  of  officialdom  might  have 
been  articles  of  furniture,  so  remote  were  they  from  dis- 
playing the  slightest  interest  in  the  private  matters  dis- 
cussed between  the  two.  No  doubt  they  had  been  pres- 
ent at  many  similar  scenes,  and  custom  is  a  deadening 
factor.  Mr.  Oakham's  object  was  to  urge  his  client  to 
consent  to  the  lodgement  of  an  appeal  against  the  jury's 
verdict,  and  to  that  end  he  advanced  a  multitude  of  argu- 
ments and  a  variety  of  reasons.  The  young  man  listened 
patiently,  but  when  the  solicitor  had  concluded  he  shook 
his  head  with  a  gesture  of  finality  which  indicated  an 
unalterable  refusal. 

"It's  no  use,  Oakham,"  he  said.  "My  mind  is  quite 
made  up.  I'm  obliged  to  you  for  all  the  trouble  you 
have  taken  in  my  case,  but  I  cannot  alter  my  decision. 
I  shall  go  through  with  it — to  the  end." 

"In  that  case  it  is  no  use  my  urging  you  further." 
Mr.  Oakham  spoke  stiffly,  and  put  his  eyeglasses  in  his 
pocket  with  an  air  of  vexation.  "Mr.  Colwyn  has  some- 
thing to  say  to  you  on  the  subject.  Perhaps  you  will 
listen  to  him.  He  believes  he  can  help  you." 

"He  helped  to  arrest  me,"  said  Penreath,  with  a  slight 
indifferent  look  at  the  detective. 

"But  not  to  convict  you,"  said  Colwyn.  "I  had  hoped 
to  help  you." 

"What  do  you  want  of  me  ?"    Penreath's  tone  was  cold. 


276  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"In  the  first  place,  I  have  to  say  that  I  believe  you 
innocent." 

The  young  man  lifted  his  eyebrows  slightly,  as  if  to 
indicate  that  the  other's  opinion  was  a  matter  of  indiffer- 
ence to  him,  but  he  remained  silent. 

"I  have  come  to  beg  of  you,  even  at  this  late  hour,  to 
break  your  silence,  and  give  an  account  of  your  actions 
that  night  at  the  inn." 

"You  might  have  saved  yourself  the  trouble  of  coming 
here.  I  have  nothing  whatever  to  say." 

"That  means  that  you  continue  in  your  refusal  to 
speak.  Will  you  answer  one  or  two  questions?" 

"No." 

"Will  you  not  tell  me  why  you  kept  silence  about  what 
you  saw  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room  that  night  of  the 
murder  ?" 

"Man,  how  did  you  find  that  out?"  Penreath's  calm 
disappeared  in  a  sudden  fury  of  voice  and  look.  "What 
do  you  know?" 

"I  know  whom  you  are  trying  to  shield,"  replied  the 
detective,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Penreath's  face.  "You 
are  wrong.  She " 

"I  beg  of  you  to  be  silent!  Do  not  mention  names, 
for  God's  sake."  Penreath's  face  had  grown  suddenly 
white. 

"It  is  in  your  power  to  ensure  my  silence." 

"How?" 

"By  speaking  yourself." 

"That  I  will  never  do." 

"Then  you  compel  me  to  go  to  the  authorities  and  tell 
them  what  I  have  discovered.  I  will  save  you  in  spite 
of  yourself." 

"Do  you  think  that  I  want  to  be  saved— like  that?" 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  277 

Struggling  desperately  for  self-control  Penreath  turned  to 
Mr.  Oakham.  "Why  did  you  bring  Mr.  Colwyn  here?" 
he  asked  the  solicitor  fiercely.  "To  torture  me?" 

Before  Mr.  Oakham  could  reply  Colwyn  laughed  aloud. 
A  clear  ringing  laugh  of  unmistakable  satisfaction.  The 
laugh  sounded  strangely  incongruous  in  such  a  place. 

"Penreath,"  he  said,  "you've  told  me  all  that  I  came 
here  to  know.  You're  a  splendid  young  Briton,  but 
finesse  is  not  your  strong  point.  You've  acted  like  a 
quixotic  young  idiot  in  this  case,  and  got  yourself  into 
a  nice  muddle  for  nothing.  The  girl  is  as  innocent  as 
you  are,  and  you  are  a  pair  of  simpletons !  Yes.  I  mean 
what  I  say,"  continued  the  detective,  answering  the 
young  man's  amazed  look  with  a  reassuring  smile.  "Do 
you  think  that  I  would  want  to  save  you  at  her  expense  ? 
Now  perhaps,  when  I  have  told  you  what  happened  that 
night,  you  will  answer  a  few  questions.  Before  you  went 
to  bed  you  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  on  a  leaf  torn 
from  your  pocket-book.  That  letter  was  to  Miss  Will- 
oughby,  breaking  off  your  engagement.  After  writing 
it  you  went  to  bed.  At  that  time  it  was  raining  hard. 

"You  must  have  fallen  asleep  almost  immediately,  and 
slept  for  half  an  hour — perhaps  a  little  more — for  when 
you  awoke  the  rain  had  ceased.  You  heard  a  slight  noise 
in  your  room,  and  lit  your  candle  to  see  what  it  was. 
There  was  a  rat  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  You  got  up 
to  throw  something  at  it,  but  as  soon  as  you  moved  the 
rat  darted  across  the  room  and  disappeared  behind  the 
wardrobe  at  the  side  of  the  bed.  You  pushed  back  the 
wardrobe  and " 

"For  God's  sake,  say  no  more!"  said  Penreath.  His 
face  was  grey,  and  he  was  staring  at  the  detective  with 
the  eyes  of  a  man  who  saw  his  heart's  secret — the  secret 
for  which  he  was  prepared  to  die — being  dragged  out 


278  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

into  the  light  of  day.     "How  did  you  learn  all  this?" 

"That  does  not  matter  much  just  how.  What  you  saw 
through  the  wall  made  you  determine  to  leave  the  house 
as  speedily  as  possible,  and  also  caused  you  to  destroy 
the  letter  you  had  written  to  Miss  Willoughby. 

"You  were  wrong  in  what  you  did.  In  the  first  place, 
you  misinterpreted  what  you  saw  through  the  door  in 
the  wall.  By  thinking  Peggy  guilty  and  leaving  the  inn 
early  in  the  morning,  you  not  only  wronged  her  griev- 
ously, but  brought  suspicion  on  yourself.  Peggy's  pres- 
ence in  the  room  was  quite  by  accident.  She  had  gone 
to  ask  Mr.  Glenthorpe  to  assist  you  in  your  trouble,  by 
lending  you  money,  and,  finding  the  door  open,  she  im- 
pulsively went  in  and  found  him  dead — murdered.  And 
at  the  bedside  she  picked  up  the  knife — the  knife  you 
had  used  at  dinner — and  this." 

Colwyn  produced  Penreath's  match-box  from  his 
pocket  and  laid  it  on  the  table  in  front  of  him. 

"Because  of  the  knife  and  this  match-box  she  thought 
you  guilty." 

"I !  Why  I  never  left  my  room  after  I  went  into  it," 
exclaimed  Penreath.  "I  left  the  match-box  in  the  room 
where  I  had  dined  with  Mr.  Glenthorpe.  When  I  awoke 
after  falling  asleep,  and  heard  the  noise  in  the  room — 
just  as  you  describe — I  could  not  find  my  match-box 
when  I  wanted  a  match  to  light  my  candle,  then  I  re- 
membered that  I  had  left  it  in  the  sitting-room  on  the 
mantelpiece.  I  happened  to  find  a  loose  match  in  my 
vest  pocket." 

"Peggy  came  to  see  me  at  my  hotel,  after  the  trial,  and 
told  me  all  she  knew,"  continued  Colwyn.  "It  was  well 
she  did,  for  my  second  visit  to  the  inn  brought  to  light 
a  number  of  facts  which  will  enable  me  to  establish  your 
innocence." 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  279 

"And  what  about  the  real  murderer  ?"  asked  Penreath, 
in  a  hesitating  voice,  without  looking  at  the  detective. 

"We  will  not  go  into  that  just  now,  unless  you  have 
anything  to  tell  me  that  will  throw  further  light  on  the 
events  of  the  night."  Colwyn  shot  a  keen,  questioning 
glance  at  the  young  man. 

"I  will  answer  any  questions  you  wish  to  put  to  me. 
It  is  the  least  I  can  do  after  having  made  such  a  fool 
of  myself.  It  was  the  shock  of  seeing  Peggy  in  the  room 
that  robbed  me  of  my  judgment.  I  should  have  known 
her  better,  but  you  must  remember  that  I  had  no  idea 
she  was  in  the  house  until  I  looked  through  the  door  in 
the  wall  which  I  had  accidentally  discovered,  and  saw 
her  standing  at  the  bedside,  with  the  knife  in  her  hand. 
I  started  to  follow  her  home  that  day  because  I  wished 
to  know  more  about  her.  I  lost  my  way  in  the  mist.  I 
met  a  man  on  the  marshes  who  directed  me  to  the  village 
and  the  inn." 

"When  she  heard  your  voice,  and  saw  you  going  up- 
stairs, she  waited  about  in  the  hope  of  seeing  you  before 
she  went  to  bed,  as  she  wished  to  avoid  meeting  you  in 
the  presence  of  her  father.  When  she  saw  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe's  door  open  she  acted  on  a  sudden  impulse,  and 
went  in." 

"I  have  been  rightly  punished  for  my  stupidity  and  my 
folly,"  said  Penreath.  "I  have  wronged  her  beyond  for- 
giveness." 

"You  really  have  not  much  to  blame  yourself  for  ex- 
cept your  obstinate  silence.  That  was  really  too 
quixotic,  even  if  things  had  been  as  you  imagined.  No 
man  is  justified  in  sacrificing  his  life  foolishly.  And  you 
had  much  to  live  for.  You  had  your  duty  to  do  in  life. 
Nobody  knew  that  better  than  you — a  soldier  who  had 
served  his  country  gallantly  and  well.  In  fact,  your 


280  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

silence  has  been  to  me  one  of  the  puzzles  of  this  case, 
and  even  now  it  seems  to  me  that  you  must  have  had  a 
deeper  motive  than  that  of  shielding  the  girl,  because  you 
could  have  asserted  your  innocence  without  implicating 
her." 

"You  are  a  very  clever  man,  Colwyn,"  said  the  other 
slowly.  "There  was  another  reason  for  my  silence." 

"What  was  it?" 

"I  am  supposed  to  be  an  epileptic.  I  happen  to  know 
a  little  of  the  course  of  that  frightful  disease,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  it  was  better  to  die — even  at  the  hands 
of  the  hangman — than  to  live  on  to  be  a  burden  to  my 
friends  and  relations,  particularly  when  by  dying  I  could 
shield  the  girl  I  loved.  That  is  why  I  was  glad  when  the 
plea  put  up  for  my  defence  failed.  I  preferred  to  die 
rather  than  live  branded  as  a  criminal  lunatic.  So,  you 
see,  it  was  not  such  a  great  sacrifice  on  my  part,  after 
all." 

"What  brought  you  back  to  the  wood  where  you  were 
arrested  ?" 

"To  see  her.  I  do  not  know  if  I  wanted  to  speak  to 
her ;  but  I  wanted  above  all  things  to  see  her  once  again. 
When  I  left  the  inn  that  morning  I  had  no  idea  that  I 
might  fall  under  suspicion  for  having  committed  the  mur- 
der, but  I  was  desperately  unhappy  after  what  I  had  seen 
the  night  before,  and  I  didn't  care  what  I  did  or  where 
I  went.  Instead  of  walking  back  to  Durrington  I  struck 
across  the  marshes  in  the  opposite  direction.  I  walked 
along  all  day,  through  a  desolate  area  of  marshes,  meet- 
ing nobody  except  an  old  eel  fisherman  in  the  morning, 
and,  later  on,  a  labourer  going  home  from  his  work.  I 
was  very  tired  when  I  saw  the  labourer,  and  I  asked  him 
to  direct  me  to  some  place  where  I  could  obtain  rest  and 
refreshment.  He  pointed  to  a  short  cut  across  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  281 

marshes,  which,  he  said,  led  to  a  hamlet  with  an  inn.  I 
went  along  the  path  he  had  pointed  out,  but  I  lost  my 
way  in  the  gathering  darkness.  After  wandering  about 
the  marshes  for  some  time  I  saw  the  light  of  a  cottage 
window  some  distance  off,  and  went  there  to  inquire  my 
way.  The  occupant,  an  old  peasant  woman,  could  not 
have  heard  anything  about  the  murder,  for  she  was  very 
kind  to  me,  and  gave  me  tea  and  food.  Afterwards  I 
set  out  for  the  inn  again,  and  when  I  reached  the  road 
I  sat  down  by  the  side  of  it  to  rest  awhile. 

"While  I  was  sitting  there  two  men  came  along.  They 
did  not  see  me  in  the  dark,  and  I  heard  them  talking 
about  the  murder,  and  from  what  they  said  I  knew  that 
I  was  suspected,  and  that  the  whole  country  side  was 
searching  for  me.  It  seemed  incredible  to  me,  and  my 
first  instinct  was  to  fly.  I  sat  there  until  the  men's  voices 
died  away  in  the  distance,  then  I  turned  off  the  road,  and 
hurried  across  some  fields,  looking  for  a  place  to  hide. 
After  walking  some  distance  I  came  to  a  large  barn, 
standing  by  itself.  The  door  was  open,  and  I  went  in.  I 
had  no  matches,  but  I  felt  some  hay  or  straw  on  the 
floor.  I  lay  down  and  pulled  some  over  me,  and  fell 
fast  asleep. 

"I  had  only  intended  to  rest  in  the  barn  for  a  while, 
but  I  was  so  tired  that  I  slept  all  night.  When  I  awoke  it 
was  broad  daylight.  I  did  not  know  where  I  was  at  first, 
but  it  all  came  back  to  me,  and  I  started  up  in  a  fright, 
determined  to  leave  the  barn  as  quickly  as  possible,  for 
I  knew  it  was  an  unsafe  hiding  place,  and  likely  to  be 
searched  at  any  time.  But  before  I  could  get  away  I 
heard  loud  voices  approaching,  and  I  knew  I  should  be 
seen.  I  looked  hastily  around  for  some  place  of  conceal- 
ment. It  was  just  a  big  empty  shed  with  one  or  two 
shelves  covered  with  apples,  and  a  lot  of  straw  on  the 


282  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

floor.  In  desperation,  as  the  voices  came  nearer,  I  lay 
down  on  the  floor  again,  and  pulled  straw  over  me  till  I 
was  completely  hidden  from  view. 

"The  door  opened,  and  some  men  looked  in.  Through 
the  straw  that  covered  me  I  could  see  them  quite  dis- 
tinctly— three  fishermen  and  a  farm  labourer — though 
apparently  they  couldn't  see  me.  From  their  conversa- 
tion I  gathered  that  they  formed  part  of  a  search  party 
looking  for  me,  and  had  been  told  off  to  search  the  barn. 
This  apparently  they  were  not  anxious  to  do,  for  they 
merely  peeped  in  at  the  door,  and  one  of  them,  in  rather 
a  relieved  tone,  said  I  wasn't  in  there,  wherever  I  was. 
One  of  the  fishermen  replied  that  he  expected  that  I  was 
far  enough  off  by  that  time.  They  stood  at  the  door  for 
a  few  moments,  talking  about  the  murder,  and  then  they 
went  away. 

"I  stayed  in  the  barn  all  day,  but  nobody  else  came 
near  me.  When  it  was  dark,  I  filled  my  pockets  with 
apples  from  the  shelves,  and  went  out.  I  wandered  about 
all  night,  and  found  myself  close  to  a  railway  station  at 
daybreak.  I  had  been  in  that  part  of  the  country  before, 
so  I  knew  where  I  was — not  far  from  Heathfield,  with 
Flegne  about  three  miles  away  across  the  fields.  The 
country  was  nearly  all  open,  and  consequently  unsafe. 
As  I  walked  through  a  field  I  spied  a  little  hut,  almost 
hidden  from  view  in  a  clump  of  trees.  The  door  was 
open,  and  I  could  see  it  was  empty.  I  went  in,  lay 
down,  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

"When  I  awoke  it  was  getting  dusk.  I  was  very  stiff 
and  cold,  so  I  started  out  walking  again  to  get  myself 
warm.  It  was  then,  I  remember  well,  that  the  longing 
came  over  me  to  see  Peggy  again.  I  cursed  myself  for 
my  weakness,  knowing  what  I  knew — or  thought  I  knew, 
God  forgive  me. 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  283 

"I  found  myself  making  my  way  back  to  Flegne  as 
fast  as  my  legs  would  carry  me — which  wasn't  very  fast, 
because  I  was  weak  from  want  of  food,  and  so  footsore 
that  I  could  hardly  stumble  along.  But  I  got  over  the 
three  miles  somehow,  and  reached  the  wood,  where  I 
crawled  into  some  undergrowth,  and  lay  there  all  night, 
sometimes  dozing,  sometimes  wide  awake,  and  sometimes 
a  bit  light-headed,  I  think.  It  was  there  you  found  me 
next  day,  and  I  was  glad  you  did.  I  was  about  finished 
when  I  saw  you  looking  through  the  bushes  and  only 
too  glad  to  come  out.  I  didn't  care  what  happened  to 
me  then.  And  now,  I  have  told  you  all." 

The  young  man,  as  he  finished  his  story,  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands,  as  though  overcome  by  the  recollection  of 
the  mental  anguish  he  had  been  through,  and  what  he  had 
endured. 

"Not  quite  all,  I  think,"  said  Colwyn,  after  a  pause. 

"I  have  told  you  everything  that  counts,"  said  Pen- 
reath,  without  looking  up. 

"You  have  not,"  replied  the  detective  firmly.  "You 
have  not  told  me  all  you  saw  when  you  were  looking 
through  the  door  between  the  two  rooms  the  night  of 
the  murder." 

Penreath  raised  his  head  and  regarded  the  other  with 
startled  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said,  in  a  whisper. 

"I  mean  that  you  have  kept  back  that  you  saw  the 
body  removed,"  he  said  grimly. 

"Are  you  a  man  or  a  wizard  ?"  cried  Penreath  fiercely. 
"God!  how  did  you  find  that  out?" 

"By  guess  work,  if  you  like,"  responded  the  other 
coolly.  "Listen  to  me!  There  has  been  too  much  con- 
cealment about  this  case  already,  so  let  us  have  no  more 
of  it.  It  was  because  of  what  you  saw  afterwards  that 


284  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

your  suspicions  were  doubly  fastened  on  the  girl,  is  that 
not  so?  I  thought  as  much,"  he  continued,  as  the  other 
nodded  without  speaking.  "How  long  after  the  girl  left 
the  room  was  it  before  the  body  was  removed?" 

"Not  very  long,"  replied  Penreath.  "After  she  went 
out  of  the  room  I  sat  on  the  bedside.  I  did  not  close  the 
small  door  I  had  discovered,  or  replace  the  wardrobe.  I 
was  too  overwhelmed.  In  a  little  while — perhaps  ten 
minutes — I  saw  a  light  shine  through  the  hole  again.  I 
went  to  it  and  looked  through — God  knows  why — and  I 
saw  somebody  walking  stealthily  into  the  room,  carrying 
a  candle.  He  went  to  the  bedside  and,  with  a  groan, 
lifted  the  body  on  to  his  shoulders,  and  carried  it  out  of 
the  room.  I  crept  to  my  door,  and  looked  out  and  saw 
him  descending  the  stairs.  God  in  heaven,  what  a  horror, 
what  a  horror! 

"I  waited  to  see  no  more.  I  shut  the  door  in  the  wall, 
pulled  the  wardrobe  back  into  its  place  and  determined 
to  leave  the  accursed  inn  as  soon  as  it  was  daylight.  In 
my  cell  at  nights,  when  I  hear  the  footsteps  of  the  warder 
sounding  along  the  corridor  and  dying  away  in  the  dis- 
tance, it  reminds  me  of  how  I  stood  at  the  door  that 
night,  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  footsteps  stumbling 
down  the  staircase." 

"You  heard  the  footsteps  distinctly,  then?"  said  the 
detective. 

"Distinctly  and  clearly.  The  staircase  is  a  stone  one, 
as  you  know." 

"Did  you  put  your  boots  out  to  be  cleaned  before  you 
went  to  bed?" 

"Yes." 

"And  were  they  there  when  you  looked  out  of  the 
door?" 

"I  do  not  remember.     But  I  know  they  were  there  in 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  285 

the  morning,  dirty  and  covered  with  clay.  I  took  them 
in,  and  was  about  to  put  them  on,  when  the  servant 
knocked  at  the  door  with  a  cup  of  morning  tea.  I  an- 
swered the  door  with  the  boots  in  my  hand.  She  offered 
to  clean  them  for  me,  and  was  taking  them  away,  but 
I  called  her  back  and  said  I  would  not  wait  for  them. 
I  was  too  anxious  to  get  away  from  the  place." 

"Do  you  remember  when  you  lost  the  rubber  heel  of 
one  of  them?" 

"It  must  have  been  when  I  was  walking  the  previous 
day.  They  were  only  put  on  the  day  before.  I  hap- 
pened to  mention  to  a  bootmaker  at  Durrington  that  my 
right  heel  had  become  jarred  with  walking.  He  recom- 
mended me  to  try  rubber  heels  to  lessen  the  strain,  and 
he  put  them  on  for  me.  I  had  never  worn  them  before, 
and  found  them  very  uncomfortable  when  I  was  walking 
along  the  marshes.  They  seemed  to  hold  and  stick  in 
the  wet  ground." 

"And  now  there  are  one  or  two  other  points  I  want 
you  to  make  clear.  Why  did  you  register  in  the  name  of 
James  Ronald  at  the  Durrington  Hotel?" 

"That  was  merely  a  whim.  I  was  disgusted  with 
London  and  society  after  my  return  from  the  front. 
Those  who  have  been  through  this  terrible  war  learn  to 
see  most  things  at  their  true  worth,  and  the  frivolity,  the 
snobbishness,  and  the  shams  of  London  society  at  such 
a  time  sickened  and  disgusted  me.  They  tried  to  lionise 
me  in  drawing  rooms  and  make  me  talk  for  their  enter- 
tainment. They  put  my  photograph  in  the  picture  pa- 
pers, and  interviewed  me,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing. 
What  had  I  done !  Nothing !  Not  a  tithe  of  what  thou- 
sands of  better  men  are  doing  every  day  out  there.  So 
I  went  away  from  it  all.  I  had  no  intention,  when  I 
went  into  the  hotel,  of  not  registering  in  my  full  name 


286  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

though.  That  came  about  in  a  peculiar  way.  It  was 
the  first  registration  form  I  had  seen — it  was  the  first 
hotel  I  had  stayed  at  after  nearly  eighteen  months  at 
the  front — and  I  put  down  my  two  Christian  names, 
James  Ronald,  in  the  wrong  space,  the  space  for  the  sur- 
name, which  is  the  first  column.  I  saw  my  error  as  I 
glanced  over  the  form,  but  the  girl,  thinking  I  had  filled 
it  up,  took  it  away  from  me.  It  then  struck  me  that  it 
was  just  as  well  to  let  it  go ;  it  would  prevent  my  being 
worried  by  fools." 

"And  how  came  it  that  you  ran  so  short  of  money 
that  you  had  to  leave  the  hotel?" 

"I  have  practically  nothing  except  what  my  father 
allows  me,  and  which  is  paid  quarterly  through  his 
bankers  in  London.  I  left  London  with  a  few  pounds 
in  my  pocket,  and  thought  no  more  about  money  until 
the  hotel  proprietor  stopped  me  one  morning  and  asked 
me  politely  to  discharge  my  bill,  as  I  was  a  stranger  to 
him.  It  was  then  that  I  first  realised  the  difference  be- 
tween a  name  like  Penreath  of  Twelvetrees  and  plain 
James  Ronald.  I  was  furious,  and  told  him  he  should 
have  the  money  in  two  days,  as  soon  as  I  could  com- 
municate with  my  London  bankers.  I  wrote  straight 
away,  and  asked  them  to  send  me  some  money.  The 
money  came,  the  morning  I  was  turned  out  of  the  hotel ; 
I  saw  the  letter  in  the  rack,  addressed  to  J.  R.  Penreath, 
but  what  good  was  that  to  me?  I  could  not  claim  it 
because  I  was  booked  in  the  name  of  James  Ronald.  I 
knew  nobody  in  the  place  to  whom  I  could  apply.  I  had 
some  thoughts  of  confiding  in  the  hotel  proprietor,  but 
one  look  at  his  face  was  sufficient  to  put  that  out  of 
the  question. 

"So  I  went  in  to  breakfast,  desperately  angry  at  being 
treated  so,  and  feeling  more  than  a  little  ill.  You  know 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  287 

what  happened  at  the  breakfast  table.  I  began  to  feel 
pretty  seedy,  and  left  my  place  to  get  to  the  fresh  air, 
when  that  doctor — Sir  Henry  Durwood — jumped  up  and 
grabbed  me.  I  tried  to  push  him  off,  but  he  was  too 
strong  for  me,  and  I  found  myself  going.  The  next 
thing  I  knew  was  that  I  was  lying  in  my  bedroom,  and 
hearing  somebody  talk.  After  you  had  left  the  room  I 
determined  to  leave  the  hotel  as  quickly  as  possible.  I 
packed  a  small  handbag,  and  told  the  hotelkeeper  on  my 
way  downstairs  that  he  could  keep  my  things  until  I  paid 
my  bill.  Then  I  walked  to  Leyland  Hoop,  where  I  had 
an  appointment  with  Peggy,  as  you  know.  I  seem  to 
have  acted  as  a  pretty  considerable  ass  all  round,"  said 
the  young  man,  with  a  rueful  smile.  "But  I  had  a  bad 
gruelling  from  shell-shock.  I  wouldn't  mention  this,  but 
it's  really  affected  my  head,  you  know,  and  I  don't  think 
I'm  always  quite  such  a  fool  as  this  story  makes  me 
appear  to  be." 

"And  your  nerves  were  a  bit  rattled  by  the  Zeppelin 
raid  at  Durrington,  were  they  not?"  said  Colwyn  sympa- 
thetically. 

"You  seem  to  know  everything,"  said  the  young  man, 
flushing.  "I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  they  were." 

"You  have  no  cause  to  be  ashamed,"  replied  Colwyn 
gently.  "The  bravest  men  suffer  that  way  after  shell- 
shock." 

"It's  not  a  thing  a  man  likes  to  talk  about,"  said  Pen- 
reath,  after  a  pause.  "But  if  you  have  had  experience 
of  this  kind  of  thing,  will  you  tell  me  if  you  have  ever 
seen  a  man  completely  recover — from  shell-shock,  I 
mean  ?" 

"I  should  say  you  will  be  quite  yourself  again  shortly. 
There  cannot  be  very  much  the  matter  with  your  nerves 
to  have  stood  the  experience  of  the  last  few  weeks. 


288  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

After  we  get  you  out  of  here,  and  you  have  had  a  good 
rest,  you  will  be  yourself  again." 

"And  what  about  this  other  thing — this  furor  epilepti- 
cus,  whatever  it  is  ?"  asked  Penreath,  anxiously. 

"As  you  didn't  murder  anybody,  you  haven't  had  the 
epileptic  fury,"  replied  Colwyn,  laughing. 

"But  Sir  Henry  Durwood  said  at  the  trial  that  I  was 
an  epileptic,"  persisted  the  other. 

"He  was  wrong  about  the  furor  epilepticus,  so  it  is 
just  as  likely  that  he  was  wrong  about  the  epilepsy.  His 
theory  was  that  you  were  going  to  attack  somebody  at 
the  breakfast  table  of  the  hotel,  and  you  have  just  told 
us  that  you  had  no  intention  of  attacking  anybody — that 
your  only  idea  was  to  get  out  of  the  room.  You  are 
neither  an  epileptic  nor  insane,  in  my  opinion,  but  at  that 
time  you  were  suffering  from  the  after  effects  of  shell- 
shock.  Take  my  advice,  and  forget  all  about  the  trial 
and  what  you  heard  there,  or,  if  you  must  think  of  it, 
remember  the  excellent  certificate  of  sanity  and  clear- 
headedness which  the  doctors  for  the  Crown  gave  you! 
When  you  get  free  I'll  take  you  to  half  a  dozen  special- 
ists who'll  probably  confirm  the  Crown  point  of  view." 

Penreath  laughed  for  the  first  time. 

"You've  made  me  feel  like  a  new  man,"  he  said. 
"How  can  I  thank  you  for  all  you  have  done  ?" 

"The  only  way  you  can  show  your  gratitude  is  by  in- 
structing Mr.  Oakham  to  lodge  an  appeal  for  you — at 
once.  Have  you  the  necessary  forms  with  you,  Mr. 
Oakham?" 

"I  have,"  said  the  solicitor,  finding  voice  after  a  long 
silence. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MR.  OAKHAM  did  not  discuss  what  had  taken  place  in 
the  prison  as  he  and  Colwyn  drove  to  the  office  of  the 
chief  constable  after  the  interview.  He  sat  silent  in  his 
corner  of  the  taxi,  his  hands  clasped  before  him,  and 
gazing  straight  in  front  of  him  with  the  look  of  a  man 
who  sees  nothing.  From  time  to  time  his  lips  moved 
after  the  fashion  of  the  old,  when  immersed  in  thought, 
and  once  he  audibly  murmured,  "The  poor  lad ;  the  poor 
lad."  Colwyn  forbore  to  speak  to  him.  He  realised 
that  he  had  had  a  shock,  and  was  best  left  to  himself. 

By  the  time  the  taxi  reached  the  office  of  the  chief 
constable  Mr.  Oakham  showed  symptoms  of  regaining 
his  self-possession.  He  felt  for  his  eyeglasses,  polished 
them,  placed  them  on  his  nose  and  glanced  at  his  watch. 
It  was  in  something  like  his  usual  tones  that  he  asked 
Colwyn,  as  they  alighted  from  the  cab,  whether  he  had 
an  appointment  with  the  chief  constable. 

"I  wired  to  you  both  at  the  same  time,"  replied  the 
detective.  "I  asked  him  to  keep  this  afternoon  free," 
he  explained  with  a  smile. 

A  police  constable  in  the  outer  office  took  in  their 
names.  He  speedily  returned  with  the  message  that  the 
chief  constable  would  be  glad  to  see  them,  and  would 
they  step  this  way,  please.  Following  in  his  wake,  they 
were  conducted  along  a  passage  and  into  a  large  com- 
fortably furnished  room,  where  Mr.  Cromering  was  writ- 
ing at  a  small  table  placed  near  a  large  fire.  He  looked 
up  as  the  visitors  entered,  put  down  his  pen,  and  came 
forward  to  greet  them. 

289  • 


290  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"I  am  pleased  to  see  you  again,  Mr.  Colwyn,  and  you 
also,  Mr.  Oakham.  Please  draw  your  chairs  near  the 
fire,  gentlemen — there's  a  decided  nip  in  the  air.  I  got 
your  telegram,  Mr.  Colwyn,  and  I  am  at  your  disposal, 
with  plenty  of  time.  Your  telegram  rather  surprised  me. 
What  has  happened  in  the  Glenthorpe  case?" 

"Fresh  facts  have  come  to  light — facts  that  tend  to 
prove  the  innocence  of  Penreath,  who  was  accused  and 
convicted  for  the  murder." 

"Dear  me!  This  is  a  very  grave  statement.  What 
proofs  have  you?" 

"Sufficient  to  warrant  further  steps  in  the  case.  It 
is  a  long  story,  but  I  think  when  you  have  heard  it  you 
will  feel  justified  in  taking  prompt  action." 

Before  Mr.  Cromering  could  reply,  the  police  con- 
stable who  had  shown  in  Colwyn  and  Mr.  Oakham  en- 
tered the  room  and  said  that  Superintendent  Galloway, 
from  Durrington,  was  outside. 

"Bring  him  in,  Johnson,"  said  Mr.  Cromering.  He 
turned  to  Colwyn  and  added:  "When  I  received  your 
telegram  I  telephoned  to  Galloway  and  asked  him  to  be 
here  this  afternoon.  As  he  worked  up  the  case  against 
Penreath,  I  thought  it  better  that  he  should  be  present 
and  hear  what  you  have  to  say.  You  have  no  objec- 
tion, I  suppose?" 

"On  the  contrary,  I  shall  be  very  glad  for  Galloway 
to  hear  what  I  have  to  say." 

The  police  constable  returned,  ushering  in  Superinten- 
dent Galloway,  who  looked  rather  surprised  when  he  saw 
his  superior  officer's  visitors.  He  nodded  briefly  to  Col- 
wyn, and  looked  inquiringly  at  the  chief  constable. 

"Mr.  Colwyn  has  discovered  some  fresh  facts  in  the 
Glenthorpe  murder,  Galloway,"  explained  Mr.  Cromer- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  291 

ing.  "I  sent  for  you  in  order  that  you  might  hear  what 
they  are." 

"What  sort  of  facts?"  asked  Galloway,  with  a  quick 
glance  at  the  detective. 

"That  is  what  Mr.  Colwyn  proposes  to  explain  to  us." 

"I  shall  have  to  go  back  to  the  beginning  of  our  in- 
vestigations to  do  so — to  the  day  when  we  motored  from 
Durrington  to  Flegne,"  said  the  detective.  "We  went 
there  with  the  strong  presumption  in  our  minds  that  Pen- 
reath  was  the  criminal,  because  of  suspicious  facts  pre- 
viously known  about  him.  He  was  short  of  money,  he 
had  concealed  his  right  name  when  registering  at  the 
hotel,  and  his  behaviour  at  the  breakfast  table  the  morn- 
ing of  his  departure  suggested  an  unbalanced  tempera- 
ment It  is  a  legal  axiom  that  men's  minds  are  influ- 
enced by  facts  previously  known  or  believed,  and  we  set 
out  to  investigate  this  case  under  the  strong  presumption 
that  Penreath,  and  none  other,  was  the  murderer. 

"The  evidence  we  found  during  our  visit  to  the  inn 
fitted  in  with  this  theory,  and  inclined  the  police  to  shut 
out  the  possibility  of  any  alternative  theory  because  of 
the  number  of  concurrent  points  which  fitted  in  with  the 
presumption  that  Penreath  was  the  murderer.  There 
was,  first,  the  fact  that  the  murderer  had  entered  through 
the  window.  Penreath  had  been  put  to  sleep  in  the 
room  next  the  murdered  man,  in  an  unoccupied  part  of 
the  inn,  and  could  easily  have  got  from  one  window  to 
the  other  without  being  seen  or  heard.  Next  was  the 
fact  that  the  murder  had  been  committed  with  a  knife 
with  a  round  end.  Penreath  had  used  such  a  knife  when 
dining  with  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  and  that  knife  was  after- 
wards missing.  Next,  we  have  him  hurriedly  departing 
from  the  inn  soon  after  daybreak,  refusing  to  wait  till 


292  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

his  boots  were  cleaned,  and  paying  his  bill  with  a  Treas- 
ury note. 

"Then  came  the  discovery  of  the  footprints  to  the  pit 
where  the  body  had  been  thrown,  and  those  footprints 
were  incontestably  made  by  Penreath's  boots.  The 
stolen  notes  suggested  a  strong  motive  in  the  case  of  a 
man  badly  in  need  of  money,  and  the  payment  of  his 
bill  with  a  Treasury  note  of  the  first  issue  suggested — 
though  not  very  strongly — that  he  had  given  the  servant 
one  of  the  stolen  notes.  These  were  the  main  points  in 
the  circumstantial  evidence  against  Penreath.  The 
stories  of  the  landlord  of  the  inn,  the  deaf  waiter,  and 
the  servant  supported  that  theory  in  varying  degrees,  and 
afforded  an  additional  ground  for  the  credibility  of  the 
belief  that  Penreath  was  the  murderer.  The  final  and 
most  convincing  proof — Penreath's  silence  under  the  ac- 
cusation— does  not  come  into  the  narrative  of  events  at 
this  point,  because  he  had  not  been  arrested. 

"It  was  when  we  visited  the  murdered  man's  bedroom 
that  the  first  doubts  came  to  my  mind  as  to  the  condu- 
siveness  of  the  circumstantial  evidence  against  Penreath. 
The  theory  was  that  Penreath,  after  murdering  Mr. 
Glenthorpe,  put  the  body  on  his  shoulder,  and  carried  it 
downstairs  and  up  the  rise  to  the  pit.  The  murderer 
entered  through  the  window — the  bits  of  red  mud  ad- 
hering to  the  carpet  prove  that  conclusively  enough — 
but  if  Penreath  was  the  murderer  where  had  he  got  the 
umbrella  with  which  he  shielded  himself  from  the  storm? 
The  fact  that  the  murderer  carried  an  umbrella  is 
proved  by  the  discovery  of  a  small  patch  of  umbrella  silk 
which  had  got  caught  on  a  nail  by  the  window.  Again, 
why  should  a  man,  getting  from  one  window  to  another, 
bother  about  using  an  umbrella  for  a  journey  of  a  few 
feet  only  ?  He  would  know  that  he  could  not  use  it  when 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  293 

carrying  the  body  to  the  pit,  for  that  task  would  require 
both  his  hands.  And  what  had  Penreath  done  with  the 
umbrella  afterwards? 

"The  clue  of  the  umbrella  silk,  and  the  pool  of  water 
near  the  window  where  the  murderer  placed  the  um- 
brella after  getting  into  the  room,  definitely  fixed  the  time 
of  the  murder  between  eleven  and  11.30  p.  m.,  because  the 
violent  rainstorm  on  that  night  ceased  at  the  latter  hour. 
If  Penreath  was  the  murderer,  he  waited  until  the 
storm  ceased  before  removing  the  body.  There  were  no 
footprints  outside  the  window  where  the  murderer  got 
in,  because  they  were  obliterated  by  the  rain.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  footsteps  to  the  pit  where  the  body  was 
thrown  were  clear  and  distinct,  proving  conclusively  that 
no  rain  fell  after  the  murderer  left  the  house  with  his 
burden.  It  seemed  to  me  unlikely  that  a  man  after  com- 
mitting a  murder  would  coolly  sit  down  beside  his  victim 
and  wait  for  the  rain  to  cease  before  disposing  of  the 
body.  His  natural  instinct  would  be  to  hide  the  evi- 
dence of  his  crime  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"These  points,  however,  were  of  secondary  importance, 
merely  tending  to  shake  slightly  what  lawyers  term  the 
probability  of  the  case  against  Penreath.  But  a  point  of 
more  importance  was  my  discovery  that  the  candle-grease 
dropped  on  the  carpet  was  of  two  different  kinds — wax 
and  tallow — suggesting  that  two  different  persons  were 
in  the  room  on  the  night  of  the  murder.  Mr.  Glenthorpe 
did  not  use  a  candle,  but  a  reading  lamp.  Neither  did 
Mr.  Glenthorpe  use  the  gas  globe  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  Yet  that  gas  tap  was  turned  on  slightly  when 
we  examined  the  room,  and  the  globe  and  the  incandes- 
cent burner  smashed.  Who  turned  on  the  tap,  and  who 
smashed  the  globe  ?  Penreath  is  not  tall  enough  to  have 
struck  it  with  his  head.  Superintendent  Galloway's 


294  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

theory  was  that  it  might  have  been  done  by  the  murderer 
when  mounting  the  body  of  his  victim  over  his  shoulder. 

"An  ideal  case  of  circumstantial  evidence  may  be 
weakened,  but  not  destroyed,  by  the  destruction  of  one 
or  more  of  the  collateral  facts  which  go  to  make  it  up. 
There  are  two  kinds  of  circumstantial  evidence.  In  one 
kind  presumption  of  guilt  depends  on  a  series  of  links 
forming  a  chain.  In  the  other,  the  circumstances  are 
woven  together  like  the  strands  of  a  rope.  That  is  the 
ideal  case  of  circumstantial  evidence,  because  the  rope 
still  holds  when  some  of  the  strands  are  severed.  The 
case  against  Penreath  struck  me  as  resembling  a  chain, 
which  is  no  stronger  than  its  weakest  link.  The  strong- 
est link  in  the  chain  of  circumstances  against  Penreath 
was  the  footprints  leading  to  the  pit.  They  had  un- 
doubtedly been  made  by  his  boots,  but  circumstances  can 
lie  as  well  as  witnesses,  and  in  both  cases  the  most  plaus- 
ible sometimes  prove  the  greatest  liars.  Take  away  the 
clue  of  the  footprints,  and  the  case  against  Penreath  was 
snapped  in  the  most  vital  link.  The  remaining  circum- 
stances in  the  case  against  him,  though  suspicious 
enough,  were  open  to  an  alternative  explanation.  The 
footprints  were  the  damning  fact — the  link  on  which 
the  remaining  links  of  the  chain  were  hung. 

"But  the  elimination  of  the  clue  of  the  footprints  did 
not  make  the  crime  any  easier  of  solution.  From  the 
moment  I  set  foot  in  the  room  it  struck  me  as  a  deep 
and  baffling  mystery,  looking  at  it  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  police  theory  or  from  any  other  hypothesis. 
If  Penreath  had  indeed  committed  the  murder,  who  was 
the  second  visitor  to  the  room?  And  if  Penreath  had 
not  committed  the  murder,  who  had? 

"That  night,  in  my  room,  I  sought  to  construct  two 
alternative  theories  of  the  murder.  In  the  first  place,  I 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  295 

examined  the  case  thoroughly  from  the  police  point  of 
view,  with  Penreath  as  the  murderer.  In  view  of  what 
has  come  to  light  since  the  trial,  there  is  no  need  to  take 
up  time  with  giving  you  my  reasons  for  doubting  whether 
Penreath  had  committed  the  crime.  I  explained  those 
reasons  to  Superintendent  Galloway  at  the  time,  pointing 
out,  as  he  will  doubtless  remember,  that  the  police  theory 
struck  me  as  illogical  in  some  aspects,  and  far  from  con- 
vincing as  a  whole.  There  were  too  many  elements  of 
uncertainty  in  it,  too  much  guess-work,  too  much  jump- 
ing at  conclusions.  Take  one  point  alone,  on  which  I 
laid  stress  at  the  time.  The  police  theory  originally 
started  from  the  point  of  Penreath's  peculiar  behaviour 
at  the  Durrington  hotel,  which,  from  their  point  of  view, 
suggested  homicidal  mania.  To  my  mind,  there  was  no 
evidence  to  prove  this,  although  that  theory  was  actually 
put  forth  by  the  defence  at  Penreath's  trial.  I  wit- 
nessed the  scene  at  the  breakfast  table,  and,  in  my  opin- 
ion, Sir  Henry  Durwood  acted  hastily  and  wrongly  in 
rushing  forward  and  seizing  Penreath.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  his  behaviour  that  warranted  it.  He  was  a  little 
excited,  and  nothing  more,  and  from  what  I  have  heard 
since  he  had  reason  to  be  excited.  Neither  at  the  break- 
fast table  nor  in  his  room  subsequently  did  his  actions 
strike  me  as  the  actions  of  a  man  of  insane,  neurotic,  or 
violent  temperament.  He  was  simply  suffering  from 
nerves.  It  is  important  to  remember,  in  recalling  the 
events  which  led  up  to  this  case,  that  Penreath  was  in- 
valided out  of  the  Army  suffering  from  shell-shock,  and 
that  two  nights  before  the  scene  at  the  hotel  there  was 
an  air  raid  at  Durrington.  Shell-shock  victims  are  al- 
ways prejudicially  affected  by  air  raids. 

"Even  if  the  police  theory  had  been  correct  on  this 
point,  it  seemed  inconceivable  to  me  that  a  man  affected 


296  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

with  homicidal  tendencies  would  have  displayed  such 
cold-blooded  caution  and  cunning  in  carrying  out  a  mur- 
der for  gain,  as  the  murderer  at  the  Golden  Anchor  did. 
The  Crown  dropped  this  point  at  the  trial.  I  merely 
mention  it  now  in  support  of  my  contention  that  the  case 
of  circumstantial  evidence  against  Penreath  was  by  no 
means  a  strong  one,  because  it  originally  depended,  in 
part,  on  inferred  facts  which  the  premises  did  not  war- 
rant. 

"Next,  the  discoveries  made  in  the  room  where  the 
murder  was  committed,  and  certain  other  indications 
found  outside,  did  not  fit  in  with  the  police  case  against 
Penreath.  Superintendent  Galloway's  reconstruction  of 
the  crime,  after  he  had  seen  the  body  and  examined  the 
inn  premises,  did  not  account  for  the  existence  of  all  the 
facts.  There  were  circumstances  and  clues  which  were 
not  consistent  with  the  police  theory  of  the  murder. 
The  probability  of  the  inference  that  Penreath  was  the 
murderer  was  not  increased  by  the  discoveries  we  made. 
I  am  aware  that  absolute  proof  is  not  essential  to  convic- 
tion in  a  case  of  circumstantial  evidence,  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  to  ignore  facts  which  do  not  accord  with  a 
theory  is  to  go  to  the  other  extreme,  for  by  so  doing  you 
are  in  danger  of  excluding  the  possibility  of  any  alter- 
native theory. 

"On  the  other  hand,  when  I  sought  to  account  for  the 
crime  by  any  other  hypothesis  I  found  myself  puzzled  at 
every  turn.  The  presence  of  two  persons  in  the  room 
was  the  baffling  factor.  The  murderer  had  entered 
through  the  window  in  the  storm,  lighted  the  tallow  can- 
dle which  he  brought  with  him,  walked  straight  to  the 
bed  and  committed  the  murder.  Then  he  had  waited 
till  the  rain  ceased  before  carrying  the  body  downstairs 
to  the  pit.  But  what  about  the  second  person — the  per- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  297 

son  who  had  carried  the  wax  candle  and  dropped  spots 
of  grease  underneath  the  broken  gas  globe?  Had  he 
come  in  at  a  different  time,  and  why?  Why  Had  he 
sought  to  light  the  gas,  when  he  carried  a  candle  ?  Why 
had  he — as  I  subsequently  ascertained — left  the  room 
and  gone  downstairs  to  turn  on  the  gas  at  the  meter? 

"Eliminating  Penreath  for  the  time  being,  I  tried  next 
to  fit  in  the  clues  I  had  discovered  with  two  alternative 
theories.  Had  the  murder  been  committed  from  outside 
by  a  villager,  or  by  somebody  in  the  inn?  There  were 
possibilities  about  the  former  theory  which  I  pointed  out 
to  Superintendent  Galloway,  who  subsequently  investi- 
gated them,  and  declared  that  there  was  no  ground  for 
the  theory  that  the  murder  had  been  committed  from  out- 
side. The  theory  that  the  murder  had  been  committed  by 
somebody  inside  the  inn  turned  my  attention  to  the  in- 
mates of  the  inn.  Excluding  Penreath  for  the  time  being, 
there  were  five  inmates  inside  the  walls  the  night  the 
murder  was  committed — the  innkeeper,  his  daughter,  his 
mother,  the  waiter,  and  Ann,  the  servant.  The  girl  could 
hardly  have  committed  the  murder,  and  could  certainly 
not  have  carried  away  the  body.  The  old  mad  woman 
might  have  committed  the  murder  if  she  could  have  got 
out  of  her  room,  but  she  could  not  have  carried  the  body 
to  the  pit — neither  could  the  servant.  By  this  process 
of  elimination  there  remained  the  landlord  and  the  deaf 
waiter. 

"For  a  reason  which  it  is  not  necessary  to  explain 
now,  my  thoughts  turned  to  the  waiter  when  I  first  saw 
the  body  of  the  murdered  man.  The  possibility  that  he 
was  the  murderer  was  strengthened  by  the  slight  clue  of 
the  line  in  the  clay  which  I  found  underneath  the  mur- 
dered man's  bedroom  window.  That  window  is  about 
eight  feet  from  the  ground  outside,  and  the  waiter,  who 


298  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

is  short  and  stout,  could  not  have  climbed  through  the 
window  without  something  to  stand  on.  But  the  waiter 
could  not  possibly  have  carried  the  body  to  the  pit.  His 
right  arm  is  malformed,  and  only  a  very  strong  man, 
with  two  strong  arms,  could  have  performed  that  feat. 

"There  remained  the  innkeeper.  He  was  the  only  per- 
son on  the  inn  premises  that  night,  except  Penreath,  who 
could  have  carried  the  corpse  downstairs  and  thrown  it 
into  the  pit.  Although  thin,  I  should  say  he  is  a  man 
of  great  physical  strength.  It  is  astonishing  to  think, 
in  looking  back  over  all  the  circumstances  of  this  extra- 
ordinary case,  that  some  suspicion  was  not  diverted  to 
him  in  the  first  instance.  He  was  very  hard-pressed  for 
money,  and  he  knew  for  days  beforehand  that  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe  was  going  to  draw  £300  from  the  bank — a  cir- 
cumstance that  Penreath  could  not  possibly  have  known 
when  he  sought  chance  shelter  at  the  inn  that  night.  He 
was  the  only  person  in  the  place  tall  enough  to  have 
smashed  the  gas  globe  and  incandescent  burner  in  Mr. 
Glenthorpe's  room  by  striking  his  head  against  it.  He 
knew  the  run  of  the  place  and  the  way  to  the  pit  inti- 
mately— far  better  than  a  stranger  like  Penreath  could. 
I  was  struck  with  that  fact  when  we  were  examining 
the  footprints.  The  undeviating  course  from  the  inn  to 
the  mouth  of  the  pit  suggested  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  way.  The  man  who  carried  the  body  to  the 
pit  in  the  darkness  knew  every  inch  of  the  ground. 

"It  is  easy  to  be  wise  after  the  event,  but  my  thoughts 
and  suspicions  were  centring  more  and  more  around  the 
innkeeper  when  Penreath  was  arrested.  His  attitude 
altered  the  whole  aspect  of  the  case.  His  hesitating 
answers  to  me  in  the  wood,  his  fatalistic  acceptance  of 
the  charge  against  him,  seemed  to  me  equivalent  to  a  con- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  299 

fession  of  guilt,  so  I  abandoned  my  investigations  and 
returned  to  Durrington. 

"I  was  wrong.  It  was  a  mistake  for  which  I  find  it 
difficult  to  forgive  myself.  Penreath's  hesitation,  his 
silence — what  were  they  in  the  balance  of  probabilities 
in  such  a  strange  deep  crime  as  this  murder?  In  view 
of  the  discoveries  I  had  already  made — discoveries  which 
pointed  to  a  most  baffling  mystery — I  should  not  have 
allowed  myself  to  be  swerved  from  my  course  by  Pen- 
reath's silence  in  the  face  of  accusation,  inexplicable 
though  it  appeared  at  the  time.  You  know  what  hap- 
pened subsequently.  Penreath,  persisting  in  his  silence, 
was  tried,  convicted,  and  sentenced  to  death — because  of 
that  silence,  which  compelled  the  defence  to  rely  on  a 
defence  of  insanity  which  they  could  not  sustain. 

"I  went  back  to  the  inn  a  second  time,  not  of  my  own 
volition,  but  because  of  a  story  told  me  by  the  innkeeper's 
daughter,  Peggy,  at  Durrington  four  days  ago.  The 
night  before  the  inquest  Peggy  paid  a  visit  to  the  room 
in  which  the  murdered  man  lay.  I  did  not  see  her  go 
in,  but  I  saw  her  come  out.  She  went  downstairs  and 
hurried  across  the  marshes  and  threw  something  into 
the  sea  from  the  top  of  the  breakwater.  The  following 
day,  after  Penreath's  arrest,  I  questioned  her.  She  gave 
me  an  explanation  which  was  hardly  plausible,  but  his 
silence  coming  after  the  accumulation  of  circumstances 
against  him,  had  caused  me  to  look  at  the  case  from  a 
different  angle,  and  I  did  not  cross-examine  her.  The 
object  of  her  visit  to  me  after  the  trial  was  to  admit  that 
she  had  not  told  me  the  truth  previously.  Her  amended 
story  was  obviously  the  true  one.  She  and  Penreath  had 
met  by  chance  on  the  seashore  near  Leyland  Hoop  two 
or  three  weeks  before,  and  had  met  secretly  afterward. 
The  subsequent  actions  of  these  two  foolish  young  people 


300  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

prove,  convincingly  enough,  that  they  had  fallen  passion- 
ately in  love  with  each  other.  Peggy,  however,  had 
never  told  Penreath  her  name  or  where  she  lived — be- 
cause she  knew  her  position  was  different  from  his,  she 
says — and  she  could  not  understand  how  he  came  to  be 
at  the  inn  that  night.  Naturally,  she  was  very  much  per- 
turbed at  his  unexpected  appearance.  She  waited  for  an 
opportunity  to  speak  to  him  after  hearing  his  voice,  but 
was  compelled  to  attend  on  her  mad  grandmother  until 
it  was  very  late. 

"Before  going  to  bed  she  went  down  the  passage  to 
see  if  by  any  chance  he  had  not  retired.  There  was  a 
light  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room,  and,  acting  on  a  sudden 
girlish  impulse,  she  ran  along  the  passage  to  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe's door,  intending  to  confide  her  troubles  in  one 
who  had  always  been  very  good  and  kind  to  her.  The 
door  was  partly  open,  and  as  she  got  no  reply  to  her 
knock,  she  entered.  Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  lying  on  his 
bed,  murdered,  and  on  the  floor — at  the  side  of  the  bed — 
she  found  the  knife  and  this  silver  and  enamel  match-box. 
She  hid  the  knife  behind  a  picture  on  the  wall.  She  did 
a  very  plucky  thing  the  following  night  by  going  into 
the  dead  man's  room  and  removing  the  knife  in  order  to 
prevent  the  police  finding  it,  for  by  that  time  she  was 
aware  that  the  knife  formed  an  important  piece  of  evi- 
dence in  the  case  against  her  lover.  It  was  the  knife  she 
threw  into  the  sea,  but  she  kept  the  match-box,  which 
she  recognised  as  Penreath's.  When  she  came  to  me 
she  did  not  intend  to  tell  me  anything  about  the  match- 
box if  she  could  help  it.  She  was  frank  enough  up  to  a 
point,  but  beyond  that  point  she  did  not  want  to  go. 

"After  Penreath's  conviction  she  began,  womanlike,  to 
wonder  if  she  had  not  been  too  hasty  in  assuming  his 
guilt,  and  as  the  time  slipped  by  and  brought  the  day  of 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  301 

his  doom  nearer  she  grew  desperate,  and  as  a  last  re- 
source she  came  to  me.  It  was  a  good  thing  she  did  so. 
For  her  story,  though  apparently  making  the  case  against 
Penreath  blacker  still,  incidentally  brought  to  light  a  clue 
which  threw  a  new  light  on  the  case  and  decided  me  to 
return  to  Flegne.  That  clue  is  contained  in  the  match- 
box." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

COLWYN  opened  the  silver  and  enamel  box,  and 
emptied  the  matches  on  the  table. 

"I  showed  this  match-box  to  Charles  on  my  return  to 
the  inn,  and  he  told  me  that  Penreath  used  it  in  the  up- 
stairs sitting-room  the  night  he  dined  there  with  Mr. 
Glenthorpe.  Therefore,  it  is  a  reasonable  deduction  to 
assume  that  he  had  no  other  matches  in  his  possession  the 
night  of  the  murder. 

"This  fact  is  highly  significant,  because  the  matches  in 
Penreath's  silver  box  are,  as  you  see,  blueheaded  wax 
matches,  whereas  the  matches  struck  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's 
room  on  the  night  of  the  murder  were  of  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent description — wooden  matches  with  pink  heads,  of 
British  manufacture — so-called  war  matches,  with  cork 
pine  sticks.  The  sticks  of  these  matches  break  rather 
easily  unless  they  are  held  near  the  head.  Two  broken 
fragments  of  this  description  of  match,  with  unlighted 
heads,  were  found  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room  the  morning 
after  the  murder.  Superintendent  Galloway  picked  up 
one  by  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  I  picked  up  the  other 
under  the  broken  gas-globe.  The  recovery  of  Penreath's 
match-box  in  the  murdered  man's  room  suggested  several 
things.  In  the  first  place,  if  he  had  no  other  matches  in 
his  possession  except  those  in  his  silver  and  enamel  box, 
he  was  neither  the  murderer  nor  the  second  person  who 
visited  the  room  that  night.  But  if  my  deduction  about 
the  matches  was  correct,  how  was  it  that  his  match-box 
was  found  in  the  murdered  man's  room  ?  The  inference 

302 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  303 

is  that  Penreath  left  his  match-box  in  the  dining  room 
after  lighting  his  candle  before  going  to  bed,  and  the 
murderer  found  it  and  took  it  into  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  bed- 
room to  point  suspicion  towards  Penreath. 

"This  fact  opened  up  a  new  possibility  about  the  crime 
— the  possibility  that  Penreath  was  the  victim  of  a  con- 
spiracy. When  we  were  examining  the  footprints  which 
led  to  the  pit,  the  possibility  of  somebody  else  having 
worn  Penreath's  boots  occurred  to  me,  because  I  have 
seen  that  trick  worked  before,  but  the  servant's  story 
suggested  that  Penreath  did  not  put  his  boots  outside  his 
door  to  be  cleaned,  but  came  to  the  door  with  them  in 
his  hand  in  the  morning.  But  Penreath  told  me  this 
morning  that  he  put  out  his  boots  overnight  to  be  cleaned, 
but  had  taken  them  back  into  his  room  before  Ann 
brought  up  his  tea.  The  murderer,  therefore,  had  ample 
opportunity  to  use  them  for  his  purpose  of  carrying  the 
body  to  the  pit.  Afterwards,  he  put  them  back  outside 
Penreath's  door. 

"But  Peggy's  belated  admissions  did  more  than  sug- 
gest that  Penreath  was  the  victim  of  a  sinister  plot — 
they  narrowed  down  the  range  of  persons  by  whom  it 
could  have  been  contrived.  The  plotter  was  not  only  an 
inmate  of  the  inn,  but  somebody  who  had  seen  the  match 
box  and  knew  that  it  belonged  to  Penreath. 

"I  returned  to  Flegne  to  resume  the  investigations  I 
had  broken  off  nearly  three  weeks  before,  and  from  that 
point  my  discoveries  were  very  rapid,  all  tending  to  throw 
suspicion  on  Benson.  The  first  indication  was  the  out- 
come of  a  remark  of  mine  about  his  height,  and  the 
broken  gas  light  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  bedroom.  It  was 
purely  a  chance  shot,  but  it  threw  him  into  a  pitiable 
state  of  excitement.  I  let  him  think,  however,  that  it 
was  nothing  more  than  a  chance  remark.  That  night 


304  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

I  was  put  to  sleep  in  Penreath's  room,  and  there  I  made 
two  discoveries.  The  first  was  the  existence  of  a  small 
door,  behind  the  wardrobe,  opening  on  a  corresponding 
door  on  the  other  side,  which  in  its  turn  opens  into  Mr. 
Glenthorpe's  room.  Thus  it  would  be  possible  for  a  per- 
son in  the  room  Penreath  occupied,  discovering  these 
doors  as  I  did,  to  see  into  the  next  bedroom — under  cer- 
tain conditions.  My  second  discovery  was  the  outcome 
of  my  first  discovery — I  picked  up  underneath  the  ward- 
robe a  fragment  of  an  appealing  letter  which  Penreath 
had  commenced  to  write  to  his  fiancee,  and  had  subse- 
quently torn  up.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I  grasped  the 
full  significance  of  these  two  discoveries.  Why  should  a 
man,  after  writing  a  letter  of  appeal  to  his  fiancee,  decide 
not  to  send  it  and  destroy  it  ?  The  most  probable  reason 
was  that  something  had  happened  to  cause  him  to  change 
his  mind.  What  could  have  happened  to  change  the 
conditions  so  quickly?  The  hidden  doors  in  the  wall, 
which  looked  into  the  next  room,  supplied  an  answer  to 
the  question.  Penreath  had  looked  through,  and  seen — 
what?  My  first  thought  was  that  he  had  seen  the  mur- 
der committed,  but  that  theory  did  not  account  for  the 
destruction  of  the  letter,  and  his  silence  when  arrested, 
unless,  indeed,  the  girl  had  committed  the  murder.  The 
girl — Peggy !  It  came  to  me  like  a  flash,  the  solution  of 
the  strangest  aspect  of  this  puzzling  case — the  reason 
why  Penreath  maintained  his  dogged  silence  under  an 
accusation  of  murder. 

"It  came  to  me,  the  clue  for  which  I  had  been  groping, 
with  the  recollection  of  a  phrase  in  the  girl's  story  to 
me — her  second  story — in  which  she  not  only  told  me  of 
her  efforts  to  shield  Penreath,  but  revealed  frankly  to  me 
her  relations  with  Penreath,  innocent  enough,  but  com- 
menced in  chance  fashion,  and  continued  by  clandestine 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  305 

meetings  in  lonely  spots.  I  remembered  when  she  told 
me  about  it  all  that  I  was  impressed  by  Penreath's  abso- 
lute straightforwardness  in  his  dealings  with  this  girl. 
He  was  open  and  sincere  with  her  throughout,  gave  her 
his  real  name,  and  told  her  much  about  himself :  his 
family,  his  prospects,  and  even  his  financial  embarrass- 
ment. He  went  further  than  that :  he  told  her  that  he  was 
engaged  to  be  married,  and  that  if  he  could  get  free  he 
would  marry  her.  A  young  man  who  talks  in  this  strain 
is  very  much  in  love.  The  artless  story  of  Peggy  re- 
vealed that  Penreath  was  as  much  in  love  with  the  girl  as 
she  was  with  him.  'If  he  could  get  free!'  That  was 
the  phrase  that  gave  me  the  key  to  the  mystery.  He  had 
set  out  to  get  free  by  writing  to  Miss  Willoughby,  break- 
ing off  his  engagement.  Later  he  had  torn  up  the  letter 
because  through  the  door  in  the  wall  he  had  seen  Peggy 
standing  by  the  bedside  of  the  murdered  man,  and  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  she  had  murdered  him. 

"If  you  think  it  a  little  strange  that  Penreath  should 
have  jumped  to  this  conclusion  about  the  woman  he 
loved,  you  must  remember  the  circumstances  were  un- 
usual. Peggy  had  surrounded  herself  with  mystery ;  she 
refused  to  tell  her  lover  where  she  lived,  she  would  not 
even  tell  him  her  name.  When  he  looked  into  the  room 
he  did  not  even  know  she  was  in  the  house,  because  she 
had  kept  out  of  his  way  during  the  previous  evening, 
waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  see  him  alone.  Conse- 
quently he  experienced  a  great  shock  at  the  sight  of  her, 
and  the  mystery  with  which  she  had  always  veiled  her 
identity  and  movements  recurred  to  him  with  a  terrible 
and  sinister  significance  as  he  saw  her  again  under  such 
damning  conditions,  standing  by  the  bedside  of  the  dead 
man  with  a  knife  in  her  hand. 

"Penreath's  subsequent  actions — his  destruction  of  the 


306  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

letter  he  had  written  to  Miss  Willoughby,  his  hurried 
departure  from  the  inn,  and  his  silence  in  the  face  of 
accusation — are  all  explained  by  the  fact  that  he  saw 
the  girl  Peggy  in  the  next  room,  and  believed  that  she 
had  committed  this  terrible  crime. 

"I  now  come  to  the  clues  which  point  directly  to  Ben- 
son's complicity  in  the  murder.  I  have  already  told  you 
of  his  alarm  at  my  chance  remark  about  his  height  and 
the  smashed  gas  globe.  You  also  know  that  he  was  in 
need  of  money.  The  next  point  is  rather  a  curious  one. 
When  Benson  was  telling  us  his  story  the  day  after  the 
murder  I  observed  that  he  kept  smoothing  his  long  hair 
down  on  his  forehead.  There  was  something  in  the 
action  that  suggested  more  than  a  mannerism.  The  night 
after  I  discovered  the  door  in  the  wall,  I  left  it  open  in 
order  to  watch  the  next  room.  During  the  night  Ben- 
son entered  and  searched  the  dead  man's  chamber.  I  do 
not  know  what  he  was  looking  for — he  did  not  find  it, 
whatever  it  was — but  during  the  search  he  grew  hot, 
and  threw  back  his  hair  from  his  forehead,  revealing  a 
freshly  healed  scar  on  his  temple.  The  reason  he  had 
worn  his  hair  low  was  explained:  he  wanted  to  hide 
from  us  the  fact  that  it  was  he  who  had  smashed  the 
gas-globe  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room,  and  had  cut  his 
head  by  the  accident. 

"But  his  visit  to  the  dead  man's  room  revealed  more 
than  the  scar  on  his  forehead.  How  did  Benson  get  into 
the  room?  The  room  had  been  kept  locked  since  the 
murder.  That  night  I  had  taken  the  key  from  a  hook 
on  the  kitchen  dresser  in  order  to  examine  the  room  when 
the  inmates  of  the  place  had  retired.  Benson,  therefore, 
had  let  himself  in  with  another  key.  This  was  our  first 
knowledge  of  another  key.  Hitherto  we  had  believed 
that  the  only  key  was  the  one  found  in  the  outside  of  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  307 

door  the  morning  after  the  murder.  The  police  theory 
is  partly  based  on  that  supposition.  Benson's  possession 
of  a  second  key,  and  his  silence  concerning  it,  point 
strongly  to  his  complicity  in  the  crime.  He  knew  that 
Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  accustomed  to  lock  his  door  and 
carry  the  key  about  with  him,  so  he  obtained  another 
key  in  order  to  have  access  to  the  room  whenever  he 
desired.  There  would  have  been  nothing  in  this  if  he 
had  told  his  household  about  it.  A  second  key  would 
have  been  useful  to  the  servant  when  she  wanted  to 
arrange  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room.  But  Benson  kept  the 
existence  of  the  second  key  a  close  secret.  He  said 
nothing  about  it  when  we  questioned  him  concerning  the 
key  in  the  door.  An  innocent  man  would  have  im- 
mediately informed  us  that  there  was  a  second  key  to 
the  room.  Benson  kept  silence  because  he  had  something 
to  hide. 

"I  now  come  to  the  events  of  the  next  morning.  My 
investigation  of  the  rise  and  the  pit  during  the  afternoon 
had  led  to  a  discovery  which  subsequently  suggested  to 
my  mind  that  the  missing  money  had  been  hidden  in  the 
pit.  I  determined  to  try  and  descend  it.  I  arose  before 
daybreak,  as  I  did  not  wish  any  of  the  inmates  of  the 
inn  to  see  me.  Before  going  to  the  pit  I  got  out  of  the 
window  and  into  the  window  of  the  next  room,  as  Pen- 
reath  is  supposed  to  have  done.  That  experiment  brought 
to  light  another  small  point  in  Penreath's  favour.  The 
drop  from  the  first  window  is  an  awkward  one — more 
than  eight  feet — and  my  heels  made  a  deep  indentation  in 
the  soft  red  clay  underneath  the  window.  If  Penreath  had 
dropped  from  the  window,  even  in  his  stocking  feet,  the 
marks  of  his  heels  ought  to  have  been  visible.  There 
was  not  enough  rain  after  the  murder  was  committed 
to  obliterate  them  entirely.  There  were  no  such  marks 


308  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

under  his  window  when  we  examined  the  ground  the 
morning  after  the  murder. 

"I  next  proceeded  to  the  rise  and  lowered  myself  down 
the  pit  by  the  creepers  inside.  About  ten  feet  down  the 
vegetable  growth  ceased,  and  the  further  descent  was  im- 
possible without  ropes.  But  at  the  limit  of  the  distance 
to  which  a  man  can  climb  down  unaided,  I  saw  a  peg 
sticking  into  the  side  of  the  pit,  with  a  fishing  line  sus- 
pended from  it.  I  drew  up  the  line,  and  found  attached 
to  it  the  murdered  man's  pocket-book  containing  the 
£300  he  had  drawn  out  of  the  bank  at  Heathfield  the 
day  he  was  murdered. 

"Let  me  now  try  to  reconstruct  the  crime  in  the  light 
of  the  fresh  information  we  have  gained.  Benson  was 
in  desperate  straits  for  money,  and  he  knew  that  Mr. 
Glenthorpe  had  drawn  £300  from  the  bank  that  morning, 
all  in  small  notes,  which  could  not  be  traced.  The  fact 
that  he  obtained  a  second  key  to  the  room  suggests  that 
he  had  been  meditating  the  act  for  some  time  past.  It 
will  be  found,  I  think,  when  all  the  facts  are  brought 
to  light,  that  he  obtained  the  second  key  when  he  learnt 
that  Mr.  Glenthorpe  intended  to  take  a  large  sum  of 
money  out  of  the  bank.  Penreath's  chance  arrival  at  the 
inn  on  the  day  that  the  money  was  drawn  out,  probably 
set  him  thinking  of  the  possibility  of  murdering  and  rob- 
bing Mr.  Glenthorpe  in  circumstances  that  would  divert 
suspicion  to  the  stranger.  Penreath  unconsciously  hdped 
him  by  leaving  his  match-box  in  the  room  where  he  had 
dined  with  Mr.  Glenthorpe.  Benson  found  the  match- 
box on  looking  into  the  room  to  see  that  ererything  was 
all  right  when  his  guests  had  retired,  and  determined  to 
commit  the  murder  that  night,  and  leave  it  by  the  mur- 
dered man's  bedside,  as  a  clue  to  direct  attention  to 
Penreath.  His  next  idea,  to  murder  Mr.  Glenthorpe 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  309 

with  the  knife  which  Penreath  had  used  at  dinner,  prob- 
ably occurred  to  him  as  he  considered  the  possibilities  of 
the  match-box. 

"It  is  difficult  to  decide  why  Benson  chose  to  enter 
the  room  from  the  window  instead  of  by  the  door  when 
he  had  a  second  key  of  the  room.  He  may  have  at- 
tempted to  open  the  door  with  the  key,  and  found  that 
Mr.  Glenthorpe  had  locked  the  door  and  left  the  key  on 
the  inside.  Or  he  may  have  thought  that  as  Penreath 
was  sleeping  in  the  next  room,  he  ran  too  great  a  risk  of 
discovery  by  entering  from  the  door,  and  so  decided  to 
enter  by  the  window.  We  must  presume  that  Benson 
subsequently  found  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  key,  either  inside 
the  door  or  under  his  pillow,  and  kept  it.  He  entered 
the  window,  stabbed  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  and  placed  the 
match-box  and  the  knife  at  the  side  of  the  bed.  His 
next  act  would  be  to  search  for  the  money.  Finding 
it  difficult  to  search  by  the  light  of  the  tallow  candle,  he 
decided  to  go  downstairs  and  turn  on  the  gas. 

"During  his  absence  Peggy  entered  the  room,  saw  the 
dead  body,  and  picked  up  the  knife  and  the  match-box. 
Then  she  picked  up  the  candlestick  by  the  bed,  and  fled 
in  terror.  Benson,  after  turning  on  the  gas  at  the  meter, 
returned  to  find  the  room  in  darkness.  Thinking  that 
the  wind  had  blown  out  the  candle,  he  walked  to  the  gas 
with  the  intention  of  lighting  it.  In  doing  so  he  knocked 
his  head  against  the  globe,  cutting  his  forehead,  and 
smashing  the  incandescent  burner. 

"Benson  when  he  found  that  the  candlestick  had  dis- 
appeared must,  in  his  fright,  have  rushed  downstairs  for 
another.  He  could  not  light  the  gas,  because  he  had 
smashed  the  burner.  In  no  other  way  can  I  account  for 
the  second  lot  of  candle-grease  that  I  found  in  the  room 
underneath  the  gas-light,  which  made  me  believe  at  first 


3io  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

that  the  room  had  been  visited  by  two  persons  on  the 
night  of  the  murder.  There  were  two  persons,  Benson 
and  his  daughter,  but  Peggy  did  not  bring  a  candlestick 
into  the  room.  It  looks  to  me  as  though  Benson,  on 
returning  with  the  second  candle,  attempted  to  light  the 
gas  with  it  and  failed.  That  action  would  account  for 
the  gas  tap  being  turned  on,  and  the  spilt  grease  directly 
underneath.  He  then  searched  the  room  till  he  found 
the  pocket-book  containing  the  money. 

"The  subsequent  removal  of  the  body  to  the  pit  strikes 
me  as  an  afterthought.  The  complete  plan  was  too 
diabolically  ingenious  and  complete  to  have  formed  in 
the  murderer's  mind  at  the  outset.  The  man  who  put 
the  match-box  and  knife  by  the  bedside  of  the  murdered 
man  in  order  to  divert  suspicion  to  Penreath  had  no 
thought,  at  that  stage,  of  removing  the  body.  That  idea 
came  afterwards,  probably  when  he  went  upstairs  the 
second  time  with  the  lighted  candle,  and  saw  Penreath's 
boots  outside  the  door.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the 
clue  of  th-e  footprints,  which  was  such  a  damning  point 
in  the  case  against  Penreath,  was  quite  an  accidental  one 
so  far  as  the  murderer  was  concerned.  The  thought 
that  the  boots  would  leave  footprints  which  would  sub- 
sequently be  identified  as  Penreath's  was  altogether  too 
subtle  to  have  occurred  to  a  man  like  Benson.  That  is 
the  touch  of  a  master  criminal — of  a  much  higher  order 
of  criminal  brain  than  Benson's. 

"It  is  my  belief  that  he  originally  intended  to  leave  the 
murdered  man  in  his  room,  thinking  that  the  match-box 
and  knife  would  point  suspicion  to  Penreath.  But 
after  killing  Mr.  Glenthorpe  he  was  overcome  with  the 
fear  that  his  guilt  would  be  discovered,  in  spite  of  his 
precautions  to  throw  suspicions  on  another  man,  and  he 
decided  to  throw  the  body  into  the  pit  in  the  hope  that 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  311 

the  crime  would  never  be  discovered.  The  fact  that  he 
had  entered  the  room  in  his  stocking  feet  supports  this 
theory,  because  he  would  be  well  aware  that  he  would 
not  be  able  to  carry  the  body  over  several  hundred  yards 
of  rough  ground  in  his  bare  feet.  He  took  Penreath's 
boots,  which  were  close  at  hand,  in  preference  to  the 
danger  and  delay  which  he  would  have  incurred  in  going 
to  his  own  room,  some  distance  away,  for  his  own  boots. 
Having  put  on  the  boots,  he  took  the  body  on  his  shoul- 
ders and  conveyed  it  to  the  pit. 

"There  are  two  or  three  points  in  this  case  which  I 
am  unable  to  clear  up  to  my  complete  satisfaction.  Why 
did  Benson  leave  the  key  in  the  outside  of  the  door? 
Was  it  merely  one  of  those  mistakes — those  oversights 
— which  all  murderers  are  liable  to  commit,  or  did  he  do 
it  deliberately,  in  the  hope  of  conveying  the  impression 
that  Mr.  Glenthorpe  had  gone  out  and  left  the  key  in 
the  outside  of  the  door.  In  the  next  place,  I  cannot 
account  for  the  mark  of  the  box  underneath  the  window. 
There  is  a  third  point — the  direction  of  the  wound  in 
the  murdered  man's  body,  which  gave  me  some  ideas  at 
the  time  that  I  am  now  compelled  to  dismiss  as  erroneous. 
But  these  are  points  that  I  hope  will  be  cleared  up  by 
Benson's  arrest,  and  confession,  for  I  am  convinced,  by 
my  observation  of  the  man,  that  he  will  confess. 

"There  are  one  or  two  more  points.  Benson  is  an 
ardent  fisherman,  who  spends  all  his  spare  time  fishing 
on  the  marshes.  The  stolen  pocket-book  was  suspended 
in  the  pit  by  a  piece  of  fishing  line.  But  I  attach  more 
importance  to  the  second  point,  which  is  that  since  the 
murder  has  been  committed  the  nightly  conversation  at 
the  inn  tap-room  has  centred  around  a  local  ghost,  known 
as  the  White  Lady  of  the  Shrieking  Pit,  who  is  sup- 
posed from  time  immemorial  to  have  haunted  the 


312  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

pit  where  the  body  was  thrown,  and  to  bring  death 
to  anybody  who  encounters  her  at  night.  This  spectre, 
which  is  profoundly  believed  in  by  the  villagers,  had  not 
been  seen  for  at  least  two  years  before  the  murder,  but 
she  made  a  reappearance  a  night  or  two  after  the  crime, 
and  is  supposed  to  have  been  seen  frequently  ever  since. 
It  looks  to  me  as  though  Benson  set  the  story  going  again 
in  order  to  keep  the  credulous  villagers  away  from  the 
pit  where  the  money  was  concealed. 

"This  morning,  in  company  with  Mr.  Oakham,  I  saw 
Penreath  in  the  gaol,  and  by  a  ruse  induced  him  to  break 
his  stubborn  silence.  His  story,  which  it  is  not  necessary 
for  me  to  give  you  in  detail,  testifies  to  his  innocence, 
and  supports  my  own  theory  of  the  crime.  He  did  not 
see  the  murder  committed,  but  he  saw  the  girl  go  into 
the  room,  and  subsequently  he  saw  her  father  enter  and 
remove  the  body.  It  was  the  latter  spectacle  that  robbed 
him  of  any  lingering  doubts  he  may  have  had  of  the  girl's 
guilt,  and  forced  him  to  the  conclusion  that  she  and  her 
father  were  accomplices  in  the  crime.  But  he  loved  her 
so  that  he  determined  to  keep  silence  and  shield  her." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

"THIS  is  a  remarkable  story,  Mr.  Colwyn,"  said  the 
chief  constable,  breaking  the  rather  lengthy  silence  which 
followed  the  conclusion  of  the  detective's  reconstruction 
of  the  crime.  "It  has  been  quite  entrancing  to  listen 
to  your  syllogistical  skill.  You  would  have  made  an 
excellent  Crown  Prosecutor."  The  chief  constable's  offi- 
cial mind  could  conceive  no  higher  compliment.  "Your 
statements  seem  almost  too  incredible  for  belief,  but  un- 
doubtedly you  have  made  out  a  case  for  the  further  in- 
vestigation of  this  crime.  What  do  you  think,  Gallo- 
way?" 

"The  question,  to  my  mind,  is  what  Mr.  Colwyn's  dis- 
coveries really  represent,"  replied  Galloway.  "He  has 
built  up  a  very  ingenious  and  plausible  reconstruction, 
but  let  us  discard  mere  theory,  and  stick  to  the  facts. 
What  do  they  amount  to  ?  Apart  from  Penreath's  state- 
ment in  the  gaol  that  he  saw  the  body  carried  down 
stairs " 

"You  can  leave  that  out  of  the  question,"  said  the 
detective  curtly.  "My  reconstruction  of  the  crime  is 
independent  of  Penreath's  testimony,  which  is  open  to 
the  objection  that  it  should  have  been  made  before." 

"Exactly  what  I  was  going  to  point  out,"  rejoined 
Galloway  bluntly.  "Well,  then,  let  us  examine  the  fresh 
facts.  There  are  five  as  I  see  them.  The  recovery  of 
Penreath's  match-box,  the  discovery  of  the  door  between 
the  two  rooms,  the  wound  on  the  innkeeper's  forehead, 
the  additional  key,  and  the  recovery  of  the  pocket-book 


3M  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

from  the  pit.  Exclude  the  idea  of  conspiracy,  and  the 
recovery  of  the  match-box  becomes  an  additional  point 
against  Penreath,  because  it  strikes  me  as  guess  work 
to  assume  that  he  had  no  other  matches  in  his  possession 
except  that  particular  box  and  the  loose  one  he  found  in 
his  vest  pocket.  Smokers  frequently  carry  two  or  three 
boxes  of  matches.  The  discovery  of  the  hidden  door  is 
interesting,  but  has  no  direct  bearing  on  the  crime.  The 
wound  on  the  innkeeper's  head  looks  suspicious,  but 
there  is  no  proof  that  it  was  caused  by  his  knocking  his 
head  against  the  gas  globe  in  the  murdered  man's  room 
on  the  night  of  the  murder.  As  Mr.  Colvvyn  himself 
has  pointed  out,  there  is  not  much  in  Benson  having  a 
second  key  of  Glenthorpe's  room.  Many  hotelkeepers 
and  innkeepers  keep  duplicate  keys  of  bedrooms.  The 
significance  of  this  discovery  is  that  Benson  kept  silence 
about  the  existence  of  this  key.  Undoubtedly  he  should 
have  told  us  about  it,  but  I  am  not  prepared  to  accept, 
offhand,  that  his  silence  was  the  silence  of  a  guilty  man. 
He  may  have  kept  silence  regarding  it  through  a  foolish 
fear  of  directing  suspicion  to  himself.  That  theory 
seems  to  me  quite  as  probable  as  Mr.  Colwyn's  theory. 
There  remains  the  recovery  of  the  money  in  the  pit.  In 
considering  that  point  I  find  it  impossible  to  overlook 
that  Penreath  returned  to  the  wood  after  making  his 
escape.  That  suggests,  to  my  mind,  that  he  hid  the 
money  in  the  pit  himself,  and  took  the  risk  of  returning 
in  order  to  regain  possession  of  it." 

"You  are  worthier  of  the  chief  constable's  compliment 
than  I,  my  dear  Galloway,"  said  Colwyn  genially.  "Your 
gift  of  overcoming  points  which  tell  against  you  by 
ignoring  them,  and  your  careful  avoidance  of  telltale 
inferences,  would  make  you  an  ideal  Crown  Prosecutor." 

"I  don't  believe  in  inferences  in  crime,"  replied  Gallo- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  315 

way,  flushing  under  the  detective's  sarcasm.  "I  am  a 
plain  man,  and  I  like  to  stick  to  facts." 

"What  was  the  whole  of  your  case  against  Penreath 
but  a  series  of  inferences?"  retorted  Colwyn.  "Circum- 
stantial evidence,  and  the  circumstances  on  which  you 
depended  in  this  case,  were  never  fully  established. 
Furthermore,  your  facts  were  not  consistent  with  your 
original  hypothesis,  and  had  to  be  altered  when  the  case 
went  to  trial.  Now  that  I  have  discovered  other  facts 
and  inferences  which  are  consistent  with  another  hypo- 
thesis, you  strive  to  shut  your  eyes  to  them,  or  draw 
wrong  conclusions  from  them.  Your  suggestion  that 
Penreath  must  have  hidden  the  money  in  the  pit  be- 
cause he  was  arrested  near  it  is  a  choice  example  of 
false  deduction  based  on  the  wrong  premise  that  Pen- 
reath hid  the  money  there  on  the  night  of  the  murder. 
He  could  not  have  done  so  because  he  had  no  rope,  and 
how  was  he,  a  stranger  to  the  place,  to  know  that  the 
inside  of  the  pit  was  covered  with  creeping  plants  of 
sufficient  strength  to  bear  a  man's  weight?  The  choice 
of  the  pit  as  a  hiding  place  for  the  money  argues  an 
intimate  local  knowledge." 

"You  have  not  yet  told  us  how  you  came  to  deduce 
that  the  money  was  in  the  pit/'  said  Mr.  Cromering,  who 
had  been  examining  the  pocket-book  and  money. 

"While  I  was  examining  the  mouth  of  the  pit  the 
previous  afternoon  I  found  this  piece  of  paper  at  the 
brink,  trodden  into  the  clay.  Later  on  I  recognised  the 
peculiar  watermark  of  waving  lines  as  the  Government 
watermark  in  the  first  issue  of  Treasury  war  notes. 
From  that  I  deduced  that  the  money  was  hidden  in  the 
pit.  It  was  all  in  Treasury  notes,  as  you  see." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  follow  you  now,"  said  the 
chief  constable,  with  a  puzzled  glance  at  the  piece  of 


316  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

dirty  paper  in  his  hand.  "This  piece  of  paper  is  not  a 
Treasury  note." 

"Not  now,  perhaps,  but  it  was  once,"  said  the  detective 
with  a  smile.  "It  puzzled  me  at  first.  I  could  not  ac- 
count for  the  Treasury  watermark,  designed  to  prevent 
forgery  of  the  notes,  appearing  on  a  piece  of  blank  paper. 
Then  it  came  to  me.  The  first  issue  of  Treasury  notes 
were  very  badly  printed.  Ordinary  black  ink  was  used, 
which  would  disappear  if  the  note  was  immersed  in 
water.  It  was  an  official  at  Somerset  House  who  told  me 
this.  He  informed  me  that  they  had  several  cases  of 
munition  workers  who,  after  being  paid  in  Treasury 
notes,  had  put  them  into  the  pockets  of  their  overalls, 
and  forgotten  about  them  until  the  overalls  came  back 
from  the  wash  with  every  vestige  of  printing  washed 
out  from  the  notes,  leaving  nothing  but  the  watermarks. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  the  same  thing  had  happened  in 
this  case.  The  murderer,  when  about  to  descend  to  the 
pit  to  conceal  the  money,  had  accidentally  dropped  a  note 
and  trodden  it  underfoot,  and  it  had  lain  out  in  the  open 
exposed  to  heavy  rains  and  dew  until  every  scrap  of 
printing  was  obliterated." 

"By  Jove,  that's  very  clever,  very  clever  indeed!"  ex- 
claimed Galloway.  He  picked  up  a  magnifying  glass 
which  was  lying  on  the  table,  and  closely  examined  the 
dirty  piece  of  white  paper  which  Colwyn  had  found  at 
the  mouth  of  the  pit.  "It  was  once  a  Treasury  note, 
sure  enough — the  watermark  is  unmistakable.  You've 
scored  a  point  there  that  I  couldn't  have  made,  and  I'm 
man  enough  to  own  up  to  it.  You  see  more  deeply  into 
things  than  I  do,  Mr.  Colwyn.  And  I'm  willing  to  admit 
that  you've  made  some  new  and  interesting  discoveries 
about  this  case,  though  in  my  opinion  you  are  inclined 
to  read  too  much  into  them.  But  I  certainly  think  they 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  317 

ought  to  be  investigated  further.  If  Penreath's  state- 
ment to  you  this  morning  is  true,  Benson  is  the  murderer, 
and  there  has  been  a  miscarriage  of  justice.  But  what 
makes  me  doubt  the  truth  of  it  is  Penreath's  refusal  to 
speak  before.  I  mistrust  confessions  made  out  at  the 
last  moment.  And  his  explanation  that  he  kept  silence 
to  save  the  girl  strikes  me  as  rather  thin.  It  is  too 
quixotic." 

"There  is  more  than  that  in  it,"  replied  Colwyn.  "He 
had  a  double  motive.  Penreath  heard  Sir  Henry  Dur- 
wood  depose  at  the  trial  that  he  believed  him  to  be 
suffering  from  epilepsy." 

"How  does  that  constitute  a  second  motive  ?" 
"In  this  way.  Penreath  has  a  highly-strung,  intro- 
spective temperament.  He  went  to  the  front  from  a  high 
sense  of  duty,  but  he  was  temperamentally  unfit  for  the 
ghastly  work  of  modern  warfare,  and  broke  down  under 
the  strain.  Men  like  Penreath  feel  it  keenly  when  they 
are  discharged  through  shell-shock.  They  feel  that  the 
carefully  hidden  weaknesses  of  their  temperaments  have 
been  dragged  out  into  the  light  of  day,  and  imagine  they 
have  been  branded  as  cowards  in  the  eyes  of  their  fellow 
men.  I  suspect  that  the  real  reason  why  Penreath  left 
London  and  sought  refuge  in  Norfolk  under  another 
name  was  because  he  had  been  discharged  from  the 
Army  through  shell-shock.  He  wanted  to  get  away  from 
London  and  hide  himself  from  those  who  knew  him. 
To  his  wounded  spirit  the  condolences  of  his  friends 
would  be  akin  to  taunts  and  sneers.  When  Sir  Henry 
Durwood  questioned  him  he  was  careful  to  conceal  the 
fact  that  he  had  been  a  victim  of  shell-shock.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  Penreath's  behaviour  in  the  breakfast 
room  that  morning  was  nothing  more  than  the  elects  of 
the  air  raid  on  his  disordered  nerves,  but  he  would 


318  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

sooner  have  died  than  admit  that  to  strangers.  After 
listening  to  the  evidence  for  the  defence  at  the  trial, 
he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  an  epileptic  as 
well  as  a  neurasthenic.  He  might  well  believe  that  life 
held  little  for  him  in  these  circumstances,  and  that  con- 
viction would  strengthen  him  in  his  determination  to 
sacrifice  his  life  as  a  thing  of  little  value  for  the  girl  he 
loved." 

"If  that  is  true  he  must  be  a  very  manly  young  fellow," 
said  the  chief  constable. 

"Supposing  it  is  true,  what  is  to  be  done  ?"  asked  Gallo- 
way, earnestly.  "Penreath  has  been  tried  and  convicted 
for  the  murder." 

"The  conviction  will  be  upset  on  appeal,"  replied  the 
detective  decisively. 

"But  I  do  not  see  that  carries  us  much  further  for- 
ward as  regards  Benson,"  persisted  Galloway.  "If  he  is 
the  murderer,  as  you  say,  he  will  clear  out  as  soon  as 
he  hears  that  Penreath  is  appealing." 

"He  will  not  be  able  to  clear  out  if  you  arrest  him." 

"On  what  grounds  ?  I  cannot  arrest  him  for  a  murder 
for  which  another  man  has  been  sentenced  to  death." 

"True.  But  you  can  arrest  him  as  accessory  after  the 
fact,  on  the  ground  that  he  carried  the  body  down- 
stairs and  threw  it  into  the  pit." 

"And  suppose  he  denies  having  done  so?  Look  here, 
Mr.  Colwyn,  I  want  to  help  you  all  I  can,  but  if  I  have 
made  one  mistake,  I  do  not  want  to  make  a  second  one. 
Frankly,  I  do  not  know  what  to  think  of  your  story.  It 
may  be  true,  or  it  may  not.  But  speaking  from  a  police 
point  of  view,  we  have  mighty  little  to  go  on  if  we  arrest 
Benson.  If  he  likes  to  bluff  us  we  may  find  ourselves 
in  an  awkward  position.  Nobody  saw  him  commit  the 
murder." 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  319 

"I  realise  the  truth  of  what  you  say  because  I  thought 
it  all  over  before  coming  to  see  you,"  replied  Colwyn. 
"If  Benson  denies  the  truth  of  the  points  I  have  dis- 
covered against  him,  or  gives  them  a  different  interpreta- 
tion, it  may  be  difficult  to  prove  them.  But  he  will  not — 
he  will  confess  all  he  knows." 

"What  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

"Because  his  nerve  has  gone.  If  I  had  confronted  him 
that  night  when  I  saw  him  in  the  room  I  would  have 
got  the  whole  truth  from  him." 

"Why  did  you  not  do  so?" 

"Because  I  had  not  the  power  to  detain  him.  I  am 
merely  a  private  detective,  and  can  neither  arrest  a  man 
nor  threaten  him  with  arrest.  That  is  why  I  have  come 
to  you.  You,  with  the  powers  of  the  law  behind  you, 
can  frighten  Benson  into  a  confession  much  more  effect- 
ually than  I  could." 

"I  don't  half  like  it,"  grumbled  Galloway.  "There's 
a  risk  about  it " 

"It's  a  risk  that  must  be  taken,  nevertheless."  It 
was  Mr.  Cromering  who  intervened  in  the  discussion 
between  the  two,  and  he  spoke  with  unusual  decision. 
"I  agree  with  Mr.  Colwyn  that  this  is  the  best  course 
to  pursue.  I  will  go  with  you  and  take  full  responsibility  % 
Galloway." 

"There  is  no  need  for  that,"  said  Galloway  quickly. 
"I  am  quite  willing  to  go." 

"I  will  accompany  you  and  Mr.  Colwyn.  It  has  been 
a  remarkable  case  throughout,  and  I  want  to  see  the  end 
— if  this  is  the  end.  I  feel  keenly  interested  in  this 
young  man's  fate." 

"I  should  like  to  go  also,  but  an  engagement  prevents 
me,"  said  Mr.  Oakham.  "I  am  quite  content  to  leave 
Penreath's  interests  in  Mr.  Colwyn's  capable  hands."  He 


320  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

rose  as  he  spoke,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  the  detective. 
"We  have  all  been  in  error,  but  you  have  saved  us 
from  having  an  irreparable  wrong  on  our  consciences. 
I  cannot  forgive  myself  for  my  blindness.  Perhaps  you 
will  acquaint  me  with  the  result  of  your  visit  when  you 
return.  I  shall  be  anxious  to  know." 

"I  will  not  fail  to  do  so,"  replied  Colwyn,  grasping 
the  solicitor's  hand.  "We  had  better  catch  the  five 
o'clock  train  to  Heathfield  and  walk  across  to  Flegne," 
he  added,  turning  to  the  others.  "It  will  be  as  quick  as 
motoring  across,  and  the  sound  of  the  car  might  put 
Benson  on  his  guard.  We  want  to  take  him  unawares." 

"He'll  have  got  wind  of  something  already  if  he  finds 
the  pocket-book  gone,"  said  Galloway.  "He  may  have 
bolted  while  we  have  been  talking  over  things  here." 

"I've  seen  to  that,"  replied  the  detective.  "I  tied  my 
own  pocket-book  to  the  fishing  line  in  the  pit,  and  left 
Queensmead  watching  the  pit.  If  Benson  tries  to  escape 
with  my  pocket-book  Queensmead  will  arrest  him  for 
robbery.  I've  made  a  complaint  of  the  loss." 

"You  haven't  left  much  to  chance,"  replied  Galloway, 
with  a  grim  smile. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IT  was  characteristic  of  Mr.  Cromering  to  beguile  the 
long  walk  in  the  dark  from  Heathfield  Station  by  dis- 
cussing Colwyn's  theory  that  Benson  had  circulated  the 
reappearance  of  the  White  Lady  of  the  Shrieking  Pit 
in  order  to  keep  the  villagers  away  from  the  place  where 
the  stolen  money  was  hidden.  Mr.  Cromering  had  been 
much  impressed — he  said  so — with  the  logical  skill  and 
masterly  deductive  powers  by  which  Colwyn  had  recon- 
structed the  hidden  events  of  the  night  of  the  murder, 
like  an  Owen  reconstructing  the  extinct  moa  from  a 
single  bone,  but  he  was  loath  to  accept  that  part  of  the 
theory  which  seemed  to  throw  doubt  on  the  authenticity 
of  a  famous  venerable  Norfolk  legend  which  had  at 
least  two  hundred  years  of  tradition  behind  it. 

Mr.  Cromering,  without  going  so  far  as  to  affirm  his 
personal  belief  in  the  story,  declared  that  there  were  sev- 
eral instances  extant  of  enlightened  and  educated  people 
who  had  seen  the  ghost,  and  had  suffered  an  untimely 
end  in  consequence.  He  cited  the  case  of  a  visiting 
magistrate,  who  had  been  visiting  in  the  district  some 
twenty  years  ago,  and  knew  nothing  about  the  legend. 
He  was  riding  through  Flegne  one  night,  and  heard  dismal 
shrieks  from  the  wood  on  the  rise.  Thinking  somebody 
was  in  need  of  help,  he  dismounted  from  his  horse,  and 
went  up  to  the  rise  to  investigate.  As  he  neared  the 
pit  the  White  Lady  appeared  from  the  pit  and  looked 
at  him  with  inexpressibly  sad  eyes,  drew  her  hand  thrice 
across  her  throat,  and  disappeared  again  in  the  pit.  The 
magistrate  was  greatly  startled  at  what  he  had  seen,  and 

321 


322  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

related  the  experience  to  his  host  when  he  got  home. 
The  latter  did  not  tell  him  of  the  tragic  significance  which 
was  attached  to  the  apparition,  but  the  magistrate  cut  his 
throat  three  days  after  his  return  to  London.  "Surely, 
that  was  more  than  a  mere  coincidence?"  concluded  Mr. 
Cromering. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  undermine  the  local  belief  in  the 
White  Lady  of  the  Shrieking  Pit,"  said  Colwyn,  with  a 
smile  which  the  darkness  hid.  "All  I  say  is  that  her 
frequent  reappearances  since  the  money  was  hidden  in 
the  pit  were  exceedingly  useful  for  the  man  who  hid  the 
money.  I  can  assure  you  that  none  of  the  villagers  would 
go  near  the  pit  for  twice  the  amount.  There  are  plenty 
of  them  who  will  go  to  their  graves  convinced  that  they 
have  heard  her  nightly  shrieks  since  the  murder  was  com- 
mitted." 

"It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  they  are  all  mistaken," 
said  Mr.  Cromering  slowly. 

"I  do  not  think  they  are  mistaken — at  least,  not  all  of 
them.  Some  have  probably  heard  shrieks." 

"Then  how  do  you  account  for  the  shrieks  ?"  asked  the 
chief  constable  eagerly. 

"I  think  they  have  heard  Benson's  mother  shrieking 
in  her  paroxysms  of  madness." 

"By  Jove,  that's  a  shrewd  notion !"  chuckled  Superin- 
tendent Galloway.  "You  don't  miss  much,  Mr.  Colwyn. 
Whether  you're  right  or  not,  there's  not  the  slightest 
doubt  that  the  whole  village  is  in  terror  of  the  ghost,  and 
avoids  the  Shrieking  Pit  like  a  pestilence.  I  was  talking 
to  a  Flegne  farmer  the  other  day,  and  he  assured  me, 
with  a  pale  face,  that  he  had  heard  the  White  Lady 
shrieking  three  nights  running,  and  when  his  men  went 
to  the  inn  after  dark  they  walked  half  a  mile  out  of 
their  way  to  avoid  passing  near  the  pit.  He  told  me 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  323 

also  that  the  general  belief  among  the  villagers  is  that 
Mr.  Glenthorpe  saw  the  White  Lady  a  night  or  so  before 
>  he  was  murdered." 

"I  heard  that  story  also,"  responded  Colwyn.  "He 
was  in  the  habit  of  walking  up  to  the  rise  after  dark. 
He  appears  to  have  been  keenly  interested  in  his  scien- 
tific work." 

"He  was  absorbed  in  it  to  the  exclusion  of  everything 
else,"  said  the  chief  constable,  with  a  sigh.  "His  death 
is  a  great  loss  to  British  science,  and  Norfolk  research 
in  particular.  I  was  very  much  interested  in  that  news- 
paper clipping  which  was  found  in  his  pocket-book  with 
the  money.  It  was  a  London  review  on  a  brochure  he 
had  published  on  sponge  spicules  he  had  found  in  a  flint 
at  Flegne,  and  was  his  last  contribution  to  science,  pub- 
lished two  days  before  he  was  struck  down.  What  a 
loss !" 

Their  conversation  had  brought  them  to  the  top  of 
the  rise.  Beneath  them  lay  the  little  hamlet  on  the  edge 
of  the  marshes,  wrapped  in  a  white  blanket  of  mist.  Col- 
wyn asked  his  companions  to  remain  where  they  were, 
while  he  went  to  see  if  Queensmead  was  on  the  watch. 
He  walked  quickly  across  the  hut  circles  until  he  reached 
the  pit.  There  his  keen  eyes  detected  a  dark  figure  stand- 
ing motionless  in  the  shadow  of  the  wood. 

"Is  that  you,  Queensmead?''  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Colwyn."  The  figure  advanced  out  of  the 
shadow. 

"Is  everything  all  right?" 

"Quite  all  right,  sir.  I've  watched  from  this  spot 
from  dark  till  dawn  since  you've  been  away,  and  there's 
not  been  a  soul  near  the  pit.  I've  not  been  disturbed—- 
not even  by  the  White  Lady." 

"You  have  done  excellently.    The  chief  constable  and 


324  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

Superintendent  Galloway  have  come  over  with  me,  and 
we  are  going  to  the  inn  now.  You  had  better  keep  watch 
here  for  half  an  hour  longer,  so  as  to  be  on  the  safe  side. 
If  anybody  comes  to  the  pit  during  that  time  you  must 
detain  him,  and  call  for  assistance.  I  will  come  and 
relieve  you  myself." 

"Very  good,  sir,  you  can  depend  on  me,"  said  Queens- 
mead  quietly,  as  he  returned  to  his  post. 

Colwyn  rejoined  his  companions,  and  told  them  what 
had  passed. 

"I  want  to  be  on  the  safe  side  in  case  Benson  tries  to 
bolt  when  he  sees  us,"  he  explained.  "He's  hardly  likely 
to  go  without  making  an  effort  to  get  the  money.  Now, 
let  us  go  to  the  inn. 

"One  moment,"  said  the  chief  constable.  "How  do 
you  propose  to  proceed  when  we  get  there?" 

"Get  Benson  by  himself  and  frighten  him  into  a  con- 
fession," was  the  terse  reply.  "I  want  your  authority 
to  threaten  him  with  arrest.  In  fact,  I  should  prefer 
that  you  or  Superintendent  Galloway  undertook  to  do 
that.  It  would  come  with  more  force." 

"Let  it  be  Galloway,"  responded  the  chief  constable. 
"You  will  act  just  as  if  I  was  not  present,  Galloway, 
and  it  is  my  wish  that  you  do  whatever  Mr.  Colwyn  asks 
you." 

"Thank  you,"  replied  the  detective.  "Let  us  go,  now. 
There  is  no  time  to  be  lost.  Somebody  may  have  seen 
me  speaking  to  Queensmead." 

They  descended  the  rise  and,  reaching  the  flat,  dis- 
cerned the  gaunt  walls  of  the  old  inn  looming  spectrally 
from  the  mist.  A  light  glimmered  in  the  bar,  and  loud 
voices  were  heard  within.  Colwyn  felt  for  the  door. 
It  was  shut  and  fastened.  He  knocked  sharply;  the 
voices  within  ceased  as  though  by  magic,  and  presently 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  325 

there  was  the  sound  of  somebody  coming  along  the  pas- 
sage. Then  the  door  was  opened,  and  the  white  face 
of  Charles  appeared  in  the  doorway,  framed  in  the  yellow 
light  of  a  candle  which  he  held  above  his  head  as  he 
peered  forth  into  the  mist.  His  black  eyes  roved  from 
Colwyn  to  the  forms  behind  him. 

"I'm  sorry  you  were  kept  waiting,  sir,"  he  said,  in  his 
strange  whisper,  which  seemed  to  have  a  tremor  in  it. 
"But  the  customers  will  have  the  door  locked  at  night 
now.  They  are  frightened  of  this  ghost — this  White 
Lady — she's  been  heard  shrieking " 

"Never  mind  that  now,"  replied  Colwyn.  He  had  de- 
termined how  to  act,  and  stepped  quickly  inside. 
"Where's  Benson?" 

"He's  sitting  upstairs  with  his  mother,  sir.  Shall  I  tell 
him  you  want  him  ?" 

"No.  I  will  go  myself.  Take  these  gentlemen  into 
the  bar  parlour,  and  return  to  the  bar." 

Colwyn  made  his  way  upstairs  in  the  dark.  He  passed 
the  rooms  where  Mr.  Glenthorpe  had  been  murdered  and 
Penreath  had  slept,  and  the  room  from  which  he  had 
watched  Peggy's  nocturnal  visit  to  the  death  chamber. 
That  wing  of  the  inn  was  as  empty  and  silent  as  it  had 
been  the  night  of  the  murder,  but  a  lighted  candle,  placed 
on  an  old  hall  stand  which  Colwyn  remembered  having 
seen  that  night  in  the  lumber  room,  flickered  in  the 
wavering  shadows — a  futile  human  effort  to  ward  off 
the  lurking  terrors  of  darkness  by  the  friendly  feeble 
companionship  of  a  light  which  could  be  extinguished 
even  more  quickly  than  a  life. 

Colwyn  took  the  candle  to  light  him  down  the  second 
passage  to  the  mad  woman's  room.  As  he  reached  it,  the 
door  opened,  and  Peggy  stepped  forth.  She  recoiled  at 
the  sight  of  the  detective. 


326  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"You !"  she  breathed.    "Oh,  why " 

"I  have  come  to  see  your  father,"  said  Colwyn.  It 
went  to  his  heart  to  see  the  entreaty  in  her  eyes,  the  piti- 
ful droop  of  her  lips  and  the  thinness  of  her  face. 

The  door  was  opened  widely,  and  the  innkeeper  ap- 
peared on  the  threshold  beside  his  daughter.  Behind 
him,  Colwyn  could  see  the  old  mad  woman  in  her  bed 
in  the  corner  of  the  room,  mumbling  to  herself  and 
fondling  her  doll.  The  innkeeper  fastened  his  birdlike 
eyes  on  the  detective's  face. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  said,  and  there  was 
no  mistaking  the  note  of  terror  in  his  voice.  "What  is 
it  you  want?" 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  downstairs,"  said  the  detective. 

The  innkeeper  looked  swiftly  to  the  right  and  left  with 
the  instinct  of  a  trapped  animal  seeking  an  avenue  of 
escape.  Then  his  eyes  returned  to  the  detective's  face 
with  the  resigned  glance  of  a  man  who  had  made  up  his 
mind. 

"I  will  come  down  with  you,"  he  said.  "Peggy,  you 
must  look  after  your  grandmother  till  I  return." 

The  girl  went  back  into  the  room  and  shut  the  door  be- 
hind her,  without  a  word  or  a  glance.  Once  more 
Colwyn  felt  admiration  for  her  as  a  rare  type  of  woman- 
hood. Truly,  she  had  self-control,  this  girl. 

He  and  the  innkeeper  took  their  way  along  the  pas- 
sages and  descended  the  stairs  without  exchanging  a 
word.  When  they  got  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Benson 
half  hesitated,  and  turned  to  Colwyn  as  if  for  direction. 
The  latter  nodded  towards  the  door  of  the  bar  parlour, 
and  motioned  the  innkeeper  to  enter.  Following  closely 
behind,  he  saw  the  innkeeper  start  with  surprise  at  the 
sight  of  the  two  inmates  of  the  room.  Mr.  Cromering 
was  seated  at  the  table,  but  Superintendent  Galloway  was 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  327 

standing  up  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace.    There  was  a 
moment's  tense  silence  before  the  latter  spoke. 

"We  have  sent  for  you  to  ask  you  a  few  questions, 
Benson." 

"I  was  under  the  impression — that  is,  I  was  led  to 
believe — that  it  was  Mr.  Colwyn  who  wanted  to  see  me." 

"Never  mind  what  you  thought,"  retorted  Galloway 
impatiently.  "You  know  perfectly  well  what  has  brought 
us  here.  I'm  going  to  ask  you  some  questions  about  the 
murder  which  was  committed  in  this  inn  less  than  three 
weeks  ago." 

"I  know  nothing  about  it,  sir,  beyond  what  I  told  you 
before." 

"You  will  be  well  advised,  in  your  own  interests,  not 
to  lie,  Benson.  Why  did  you  not  tell  us  you  had  a 
second  key  to  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room?" 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause  before  the  reply  came. 

"I  didn't  think  it  mattered,  sir." 

"Then  you  admit  you  have  a  second  key  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Very  well."  Superintendent  Galloway  took  out  a 
pocket-book  and  made  a  note  of  the  reply.  "Now,  where 
did  you  conceal  the  money  ?" 

"What  money,  sir?" 

"Don't  equivocate,  man!"  Superintendent  Galloway 
produced  the  pocket-book  Colwyn  had  recovered  from 
the  pit,  and  held  it  at  arm's  length  in  front  of  the  inn- 
keeper. "I  mean  the  £300  in  Treasury  notes  in  this 
pocket-book,  which  Mr.  Glenthorpe  drew  from  the  bank, 
and  which  yooi  took  from  his  room  the  night  he  was  mur- 
dered." 

"I  know  nothing  about  it." 

To  Colwyn  at  least  it  seemed  that  the  expression  on 
the  innkeeper's  face  as  he  glanced  at  the  pocket-book 


328  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

might  have  been  mistaken  by  an  unprejudiced  obsferver 
for  genuine  surprise. 

"I  suppose  you  never  saw  it  before,  eh  ?"  sneered  Gal- 
loway. 

"I  never  did." 

"Nor  hid  it  in  the  pit?" 

"No,  sir." 

Galloway  paused  in  his  questioning  in  secret  perplexity. 
Benson's  answers  to  his  last  three  questions  were  given  so 
firmly  and  unhesitatingly  that  some  of  his  former  doubts 
of  Colwyn's  theory  returned  to  him  with  redoubled  force. 
But  it  was  in  his  most  truculent  and  overbearing  manner 
that  he  next  remarked : 

"Do  you  also  deny  that  you  carried  Mr.  Glenthorpe's 
body  from  his  room  and  threw  it  down  the  pit?" 

The  spasm  of  sudden  terror  which  contorted  the  inn- 
keeper's face  was  a  revelation  to  the  three  men  who  were 
watching  him  closely. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  he  quavered  weakly. 

"That  won't  go  down,  Benson!"  Galloway  was  quick 
to  follow  up  his  stroke,  shaking  his  head  fiercely,  like  a 
dog  worrying  a  rat.  "You  were  seen  carrying  the  body 
downstairs,  the  night  of  the  murder.  You  might  as  well 
own  up  to  it,  first  as  last.  Lies  will  not  help  you.  We 
know  too  much  for  you  to  wriggle  out  of  it.  And  never 
mind  smoothing  your  hair  down  like  that.  We  know  all 
about  that  scar  on  your  forehead,  and  how  you  got  it." 

A  wooden  clock,  standing  on  the  mantelpiece,  measured 
off  half  a  minute  in  heavy  ticks.  Then  the  innkeeper,  in 
a  voice  which  was  little  more  than  a  whisper,  spoke: 

"It  is  true.    I  carried  the  body  downstairs." 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  us  this  before?" 

"It  would  not  have  made  any  difference." 

"What!"     Superintendent  Galloway's  indignation  and 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  329 

amazement  threatened  to  choke  his  utterance.  "Ypu 
keep  silence  till  an  innocent  man  is  almost  hanged  for 
your  misdeeds,  and  now  have  the  brazen  effrontery  to  say 
it  makes  no  difference." 

"Is  Mr.  Penreath  innocent?" 

"Nobody  should  know  that  better  than  you." 

"Then  who  murdered  Mr.  Glenthorpe?" 

"Let  us  have  no  more  of  this  fooling,  Benson."  Super- 
intendent Galloway's  voice  was  very  stern.  "You  have 
already  admitted  that  you  carried  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  body 
downstairs." 

"Oh!"  The  wretched  man  cried  out  wildly,  like  one 
who  sees  an  engulfing  wave  too  late.  "I  see  what  you 
mean — you  think  I  murdered  him.  But  I  did  not — I  did 
not!  Before  God  I  am  innocent."  His  voice  rang  out 
loudly. 

"We  don't  want  to  listen  to  this  talk,"  interrupted 
Galloway  roughly.  "You  are  under  arrest,  Benson,  for 
complicity  in  this  murder,  and  the  less  you  say  the  better 
for  yourself." 

"But  I  tell  you  I  am  innocent."  The  innkeeper  brought 
his  skeleton  hands  together  in  a  gesture  which  was  al- 
most tragic  in  its  despair.  "I  carried  the  body  down- 
stairs, but  I  did  not  murder  him.  Let  me  explain.  Let 
me  tell  you " 

"My  advice  to  you  is  to  keep  silence,  man.  Keep  your 
story  for  the  trial,"  replied  the  police  official.  "You'd 
better  get  ready  to  go  to  Heathfield  with  me.  I'll  go 
upstairs  with  you,  to  give  you  five  minutes  to  get  ready." 

"Let  him  tell  his  story  before  you  take  him  away, 
Galloway,"  said  Colwyn,  who  had  been  keenly  watching 
the  innkeeper's  face  during  the  dialogue  between  him 
and  his  accuser.  "I  want  to  hear  it." 

"I  do  not  see  what  good  it  will  do,"  grumbled  Superin- 


330  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

tendent  Galloway.  "However,  as  you  want  to  hear  it, 
let  him  go  ahead.  But  let  me  first  warn  you,  Benson, 
that  anything  you  say  now  may  be  used  in  evidence 
against  you  afterwards." 

"I  do  not  care  for  that — I  am  not  afraid  of  the  truth 
being  known,"  replied  the  innkeeper.  He  turned  from 
the  uncompromising  face  of  the  police  officer  to  Colwyn, 
as  though  he  divined  in  him  a  more  unprejudiced  listener. 
"I  did  not  murder  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  but  I  went  to  his 
room  with  the  intention  of  robbing  him  the  night  he  was 
murdered,"  he  commenced.  "I  was  in  desperate  straits 
for  money.  The  brewer  had  threatened  to  turn  me  out 
of  the  inn  because  I  couldn't  pay  my  way.  I  knew  Mr. 
Glenthorpe  had  taken  money  out  of  the  bank  that  morn- 
ing, and  in  an  evil  moment  temptation  overcame  me, 
and  I  determined  to  rob  him.  I  told  myself  that  he 
was  a  wealthy  man  and  would  never  feel  the  loss  of 
the  money,  but  if  I  was  turned  out  of  the  inn  my  daugh- 
ter and  my  old  mother  would  starve. 

"My  plan  was  to  go  to  his  room  after  everybody  was 
asleep,  let  myself  in  with  my  key,  and  secure  the  pocket- 
book  containing  the  money.  I  knew  that  Mr.  Glenthorpe 
was  a  sound  sleeper,  and  I  was  aware  that  he  generally 
locked  his  door  and  slept  with  the  key  under  his  pillow. 

"I  went  to  my  room  early  that  night,  and  waited  a 
long  time  before  making  the  attempt.  It  came  on  to  rain 
about  eleven  o'clock,  and  I  waited  some  time  longer 
before  leaving  my  room.  I  walked  in  my  stocking  feet, 
so  as  to  make  no  sound,  and  I  carried  a  candle,  but  it 
was  not  lighted.  When  I  got  to  the  door  I  stood  and 
listened  awhile  outside,  thinking  I  might  judge  by  Mr. 
Glenthorpe 's  breathing  whether  he  was  asleep,  but  I 
could  hear  nothing.  I  unlocked  the  door  quietly,  and 
felt  my  way  towards  the  bed  in  the  dark,  hoping  to  find 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  331 

his  coat  and  the  money  in  it  without  running  the  risk  of 
striking  a  light. 

"But  I  could  not  lay  my  hands  on  the  coat  in  the  dark, 
so  I  struck  a  match  to  light  the  candle.  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  that  if  Mr.  Glenthorpe  should  wake  up  and  see 
me  at  his  bedside  I  would  tell  him  the  truth  and  ask  him 
to  lend  me  some  money. 

"By  the  light  of  the  candle  I  saw  Mr.  Glenthorpe 
lying  on  his  back,  with  his  arms  thrown  out  from  his 
body.  He  was  uncovered,  and  the  bed-clothes  were  lying 
in  a  tumbled  heap  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  I  stood  look- 
ing at  him  for  a  minute,  not  knowing  what  to  do.  I 
did  not  realise  at  the  time  that  he  was  dead,  because  the 
wind  blowing  in  at  the  open  window  caused  the  candle 
to  flicker,  and  I  could  not  see  very  clearly.  I  thought 
he  must  be  in  a  fit,  and  I  wondered  what  I  could  do  to 
help  him.  As  the  candle  still  kept  flickering  in  the  wind, 
I  picked  up  the  candlestick  and  walked  to  the  gas-jet  in 
the  centre  of  the  room,  turned  on  the  tap  and  tried  to 
light  it  with  the  candle.  It  would  not  light,  and  then  I 
remembered  that  I  had  told  Ann  to  turn  it  off  at  the 
meter  before  going  to  bed.  I  walked  back  to  the  bedside, 
put  the  candle  down  on  the  table,  and  had  a  closer  look 
at  Mr.  Glenthorpe.  As  he  was  still  in  the  same  attitude 
I  put  my  hand  on  his  heart  to  see  if  it  was  beating.  I 
felt  something  warm  and  wet,  and  when  I  drew  back 
my  hand  I  saw  that  it  was  covered  with  blood. 

"When  I  realised  that  he  was  dead — murdered — I  lost 
my  nerve  and  rushed  from  the  room,  leaving  the  candle 
burning  at  the  bedside.  My  one  thought  was  to  get 
downstairs  and  wash  the  blood  off  my  hand.  It  was 
not  until  I  had  reached  the  kitchen  that  I  remembered  that 
I  had  left  the  candle  burning  upstairs.  I  considered 
whether  I  should  return  for  it  at  once  or  wash  my  hands 


332  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

first.  I  decided  on  the  latter  course,  and  went  into 
the  kitchen. 

"I  had  just  lit  a  candle,  when  I  heard  a  door  open 
behind  me,  and,  turning  round,  I  saw  Charles  coming  out 
of  his  room  in  his  shirt  and  trousers,  with  a  candle  in 
his  hand.  He  said  he  had  seen  the  light  under  his  door, 
and  wondering  who  had  come  into  the  kitchen  had  got 
up  to  see.  Then  his  face  changed  when  he  saw  my  hands, 
and  he  asked  me  how  the  blood  came  to  be  on  them. 

"I  tried  to  put  him  off  at  first  by  telling  him  I  had 
knocked  my  hand  upstairs.  He  didn't  say  any  more, 
but  stood  there  watching  me  wash  my  hands,  and  when 
I  had  finished  he  said  that  if  I  was  going  upstairs  he 
would  come  with  me,  as  he  remembered  he  had  left  his 
corkscrew  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  sitting  room,  and  would 
want  it  in  the  morning. 

"I  could  see  that  he  suspected  me,  and  that  if  he  went 
upstairs  he  would  see  the  light  burning  in  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe's bedroom,  and  might  go  in.  So,  in  desperation, 
I  confessed  to  him  that  I  had  gone  into  Mr.  Glenthorpe's 
room,  and  found  him  dead.  I  asked  Charles  what  I 
should  do.  He  heard  me  very  quietly,  but  when  he  learnt 
that  I  had  left  my  candle  burning  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's 
room  he  said  the  first  thing  was  to  go  and  get  that,  and 
then  we  could  discuss  what  had  better  be  done. 

"I  realised  that  was  good  advice,  and  went  upstairs 
to  get  the  candlestick.  But  when  I  got  to  the  door  I 
was  amazed  to  find  the  room  in  darkness.  The  door 
was  on  the  jar,  just  as  I  remembered  leaving  it,  but 
there  was  not  a  glimmer  of  light.  I  was  in  a  terrible 
fright,  but  as  I  stood  there  in  the  dark,  listening  intently, 
the  sound  of  the  wind  roaring  round  the  house  reminded 
me  how  the  candle  had  flickered  in  the  wind  while  I  was 
in  the  room  before,  and  I  concluded  that  it  must  have 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  333 

blown  out  the  light.  So  I  went  into  the  room,  feeling 
my  way  along  the  walls  with  my  hands.  When  I  got 
near  the  bed  I  struck  a  match  and  looked  for  the  candle- 
stick. But  it  was  gone. 

"Then  I  knew  somebody  had  been  in  the  room,  and  I 
made  my  way  downstairs  again  as  fast  as  I  could,  and  told 
Charles,  and  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  it.  Charles 
said  it  was  clear  that  the  murderer,  whoever  he  was,  had 
revisited  the  room  since  I  had  been  there,  and  finding  the 
candle,  had  carried  it  off  with  him.  I  asked  Charles 
for  what  purpose?  Charles  turned  it  over  in  his  mind 
for  a  moment,  and  then  said  that  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
might  have  done  it  to  secure  himself,  in  case  he  was 
caught,  by  being  able  to  prove  that  somebody  else  had 
been  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room  that  night. 

"I  saw  the  force  of  that  and  was  greatly  alarmed,  and 
asked  Charles  what  he  thought  I  had  better  do.  Charles, 
after  thinking  it  over  for  a  while,  said  in  my  own  inter- 
ests I  would  be  well  advised  if  I  carried  the  body  away 
and  concealed  it  somewhere  where  it  was  not  likely  to 
be  found.  He  pointed  out  that  if  the  facts  came  to  light 
it  would  be  very  awkward  for  me.  On  my  own  admis- 
sion I  had  gone  into  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,  and  had  come  away  leaving  him  dead  in 
bed,  with  his  blood  on  my  hands,  and  my  bedroom 
candlestick  alight  at  his  bedside.  Charles  pointed  out 
that  these  facts  were  sure  to  come  to  light  if  the  body 
was  left  where  it  was,  but  if  the  body  was  removed  and 
safely  hidden,  it  might  be  thought  that  Mr.  Glenthorpe 
had  simply  disappeared. 

"I  was  struck  by  the  force  of  these  arguments,  and 
we  next  discussed  where  the  body  should  be  hidden. 
We  both  thought  of  the  pit,  but  I  didn't  like  that  idea 
at  first  because  I  thought  the  police  would  be  sure  to 


334  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

search  the  pit  when  they  karnt  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's 
disappearance,  because  his  excavations  were  near  the  pit. 
Charles,  on  the  other  hand,  thought  it  was  the  safest 
place — much  safer  than  the  sea,  which  was  sure  to  cast 
up  the  body.  He  said  it  would  never  occur  to  the  police 
to  search  the  pit,  until  the  body  had  lain  there  so  long 
that  it  would  be  impossible  to  say  how  he  came  by  his 
death.  Perhaps  it  would  never  be  searched,  in  which 
case  the  body  would  never  be  recovered. 

"We  decided  on  the  pit,  and  Charles  said  he  would 
keep  watch  downstairs  while  I  went  up  and  got  the 
body.  But  first  I  went  and  opened  the  back  door  and 
went  to  the  side  of  the  inn  to  see  if  anybody  was  about. 
The  rain  had  ceased,  it  was  a  dark  and  stormy  night, 
and  everybody  long  since  gone  to  bed.  The  rough  stones 
outside  cut  my  feet,  and  recalled  to  my  mind  that  I  was 
without  boots.  I  knew  I  could  not  carry  the  body  all 
the  way  up  the  rise  without  boots,  and  I  was  about  to 
go  to  my  room  to  get  them  when  I  remembered  that  I 
had  seen  Penreath's  boots  outside  his  bedroom  door.  I 
decided  to  wear  them  and  avoid  the  risk  of  going  back  to 
my  room  for  my  own  boots.  I  have  a  small  foot,  and  I 
had  no  doubt  that  they  would  fit  me. 

"Charles  suggested  that  I  should  go  into  the  room  in 
the  dark,  so  as  to  lessen  the  risk  of  being  seen,  and  light 
the  candle  when  I  got  inside.  I  took  the  candle,  but  I 
said  I  would  turn  on  the  gas  at  the  meter,  in  case  the 
wind  blew  out  the  candle.  I  will  keep  nothing  back  now. 
The  real  reason  was  that  I  wanted  the  better  light  to 
make  quite  sure  if  the  money  was  gone.  I  thought  per- 
haps the  murderer  might  have  overlooked  it,  and  I  hoped 
to  find  it  because  I  needed  it  so  badly.  When  I  got 
upstairs  I  stopped  outside  Mr.  Penreath's  room,  picked 
up  his  boots,  and  put  them  on.  I  went  into  the  room  in 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  335 

the  dark,  intending  to  strike  a  match,  and  light  the  gas, 
and  search  for  the  money.  I  miscalculated  the  distance, 
and  bumped  into  the  gas  globe  in  the  dark,  cutting  my 
head  badly.  When  I  struck  a  match  I  found  that  I 
couldn't  light  the  gas  because  the  incandescent  burner 
had  been  broken  by  the  blow,  so  I  lit  the  candle. 

"I  shuddered  at  the  ordeal  of  carrying  the  body  down- 
stairs, and  only  nerved  myself  to  the  task  by  reflecting 
on  the  risk  to  myself  if  I  allowed  it  to  remain  where  it 
was.  As  I  stood  by  the  bedside,  I  noticed  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe's key  of  the  room  lying  by  the  pillow,  and  I  picked 
it  up  and  put  it  in  my  pocket.  I  then  lifted  the  body 
on  my  shoulders,  carried  it  downstairs,  steadying  it  with 
one  hand,  and  carrying  the  candle  in  the  other.  Charles 
was  waiting  for  me  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  he 
took  the  candle  from  me  and  lighted  me  to  the  back  door. 

"A  late  moon  was  just  beginning  to  show  above  the 
horizon  when  I  got  outside,  and  by  its  light  I  had  no 
difficulty  in  finding  my  way  up  the  rise  and  to  the  pit. 
It  was  a  terrible  task,  and  I  was  glad  when  I  had  ac- 
complished it.  I  returned  to  the  back  door,  where 
Charles  was  awaiting  me.  We  then  fastened  the  back 
door,  and  he  went  to  his  room  off  the  kitchen,  and  I 
went  upstairs  to  my  room.  As  I  passed  Mr.  Glenthorpe's 
room  I  saw  the  door  was  open,  and  I  pulled  it  quickly 
to,  but  I  forgot  to  take  out  the  key  I  had  left  in  the  door 
when  I  first  entered  the  room. 

"I  remembered  the  key  in  the  morning  when  Ann  told 
me  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room  was  empty,  but  I  dared  not 
remove  it  then  because  I  knew  Ann  must  have  seen  it. 
And  later  on,  when  you  were  questioning  me  about  the 
key  in  the  door,  I  was  afraid  to  tell  you  about  the  second 
key,  because  I  knew  you  would  question  me. 


336  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

"When  I  learnt  from  Ann  that  Mr.  Penreath  had 
left  early  in  the  morning,  and  wouldn't  stay  for  break- 
fast, I  felt  sure  it  was  he  who  had  committed  the  murder. 
It  was  a  little  later  that  Charles  took  me  aside  in  the  bar 
and  told  me  that  he  had  walked  up  to  the  rise  early  that 
morning  to  see  if  everything  was  all  right,  and  that  I 
had  left  traces  of  my  footprints  across  the  clay  to  the 
mouth  of  the  pit.  I  was  very  much  upset  when  I  heard 
this,  for  I  knew  the  body  was  sure  to  be  found.  But 
Charles  said  that,  as  things  turned  out,  it  was  a  very  lucky 
accident. 

"Charles  said  there  was  no  doubt  Mr.  Penreath  was 
the  murderer.  He  had  not  only  cleared  out,  but  the  knife 
he  had  used  at  dinner  had  disappeared.  Charles  said 
he  had  not  missed  the  knife  the  night  before,  but  he  had 
discovered  the  loss  when  counting  the  cutlery  that  morn- 
ing. If  the  police  found  out  that  it  was  his  boots  which 
made  the  prints  leading  to  the  pit  it  would  only  be  an- 
other point  against  him,  and  as  he  was  sure  to  be  hanged 
in  any  case  the  best  thing  I  could  do  was  to  go  and  inform 
Constable  Queensmead  of  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  disappear- 
ance and  Mr.  Penreath's  departure,  but  to  keep  silence 
about  my  own  share  in  carrying  the  body  to  the  pit. 
Even  if  the  murderer  denied  removing  the  body  nobody 
would  believe  him.  I  thought  the  advice  good,  and  I 
followed  it.  I  don't  know  whether  I  could  have  kept 
it  up  if  I  had  been  cross-questioned,  but  from  first  to 
last  nobody  seemed  to  have  the  least  suspicion  of  me. 
The  only  time  I  was  really  afraid  was  when  one  of  you 
gentlemen  asked  me  about  the  key  in  the  outside  of  the 
door,  but  you  passed  it  over  and  went  on  to  something 
else. 

"And  now  you  know  the  whole  truth.     But  I  should 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  337 

like  to  say  that  I  kept  silence  about  carrying  the  body 
away  because  I  didn't  think  I  was  injuring  anybody.  I 
believed  Mr.  Penreath  to  be  guilty.  Now  you  tell  me 
he  is  innocent.  If  I  had  had  any  idea  of  that  I  would 
have  told  the  truth  at  once,  even  though  you  had  hanged 
me  for  it." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

"You'RE  a  nice  scoundrel,  Benson,"  said  Superin- 
tendent Galloway,  nodding  his  head  at  the  innkeeper  with 
a  kind  of  ferocious  banter.  "You're  really  a  first-class 
villain,  upon  my  soul!  But  this  precious  story  with 
which  you've  tried  to  bamboozle  us  is  not  complete. 
Would  it  be  putting  too  much  strain  on  your  inventive 
faculties  to  ask  you,  while  you  are  about  it,  to  give  us 
your  version  of  how  the  money  which  was  stolen  from 
Mr.  Glenthorpe  came  to  be  hidden  in  the  pit  in  which  you 
flung  his  body?" 

"But  I  didn't  know  the  money  was  hidden  in  the  pit," 
said  the  wretched  man,  glancing  uneasily  at  the  pocket- 
book,  which  was  still  lying  on  the  table.  "I  never  saw 
the  money,  though  I've  confessed  to  you  that  I  would 
have  taken  it  if  I  had  seen  it.  That's  the  truth,  sir — • 
every  word  I've  told  you  to-night  is  true!  Charles  will 
bear  me  out." 

"I've  no  doubt  he  will.  I'll  have  something  to  say  to 
that  scoundrel  later  on.  There's  a  pair  of  you.  I've  no 
doubt  he  caught  you  in  the  act  of  carrying  away  the  body 
of  your  victim,  and  that  you  bribed  him  to  keep  silence. 
You  planned  together  to  let  an  innocent  man  go  to  the 
gallows  in  order  to  save  your  own  skin.  Now,  my 
man " 

"Wait  a  moment,  Galloway." 

It  was  Colwyn  who  spoke.  The  innkeeper's  story  had 
been  to  him  like  a  finger  of  light  in  a  murky  depth,  re- 
vealing unseen  and  unimagined  abominations,  but  sup- 

338 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  339 

plying  him  with  those  missing  pieces  of  the  puzzle  for 
which  he  had  long  and  vainly  searched.  During  the  brief 
colloquy  between  Galloway  and  the  innkeeper  his  brain 
had  been  busy  fitting  together  the  whole  intricate  design 
of  knavery. 

"I  want  to  ask  a  question,"  he  continued,  in  answer 
to  the  other's  glance  of  inquiry.  "What  time  was  it  you 
went  to  Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room — the  first  time  I  mean, 
Benson.  Can  you  fix  it  definitely  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  kept  looking  at  my  watch  in  my  room, 
waiting  for  the  time  to  pass.  It  was  twenty  past  eleven 
the  last  time  I  looked,  and  I  left  my  room  about  five 
minutes  later." 

"Was  it  raining  then?" 

"Yes,  sir,  but  not  so  hard  as  previously,  and  it  stopped 
altogether  before  I  entered  the  room,  though  the  wind 
was  blowing." 

"That  is  as  I  thought.  Benson's  story  is  true,  Gallo- 
way." 

"What!"  The  police  officer's  vociferous  exclamation 
was  in  striking  contrast  to  the  detective's  quiet  tones. 
"How  do  you  make  that  out?" 

"He  couldn't  have  committed  the  murder.  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe  was  killed  during  the  storm,  between  eleven  and 
half-past.  Benson  says  he  didn't  enter  the  room  till 
nearly  half-past  eleven." 

"If  that's  all  you're  going  on " 

"It  isn't."  There  was  a  trace  of  irritation  in  the  de- 
tective's voice.  "But  Benson's  story  fills  in  the  gaps  of 
my  reconstruction  in  a  remarkable  way — so  completely, 
that  he  couldn't  have  invented  it  to  save  his  life,  because 
he  does  not  know  all  we  know.  In  this  extraordinarily 
complicated  case  the  times  are  everything.  My  original 
theory  was  right.  There  were  two  persons  in  the  room 


340  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

the  night  of  the  murder — three,  really,  but  Peggy  doesn't 
affect  the  reconstruction  one  way  or  the  other.  The  mur- 
derer, who  carried  an  umbrella  to  shield  himself  from 
the  rain,  entered  the  room  about  twenty  past  eleven. 
He  murdered  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  took  the  money,  and 
escaped  the  same  way  he  entered — by  the  window.  Ben- 
son entered  by  the  door  at  half-past  eleven,  certainly  not 
later,  and  after  standing  at  the  bedside  for  two  or  three 
minutes,  rushed  downstairs,  as  he  related,  leaving  his 
candle  burning  at  the  bedside.  During  his  absence  down- 
stairs his  daughter  entered  the  room.  Benson  returned 
for  the  candle  and  found  it  gone.  Had  he  returned  a 
minute  or  two  earlier  he  would  have  seen  his  daughter 
carrying  it  away,  because  in  her  story  to  me  she  said 
she  thought  she  heard  somebody  creeping  up  the  stairs 
as  she  left  the  room.  I  thought  at  the  time  that  she 
imagined  this,  but  now  I  have  very  little  doubt  that  it 
was  her  father  she  heard,  going  upstairs  again  to  get 
the  candle.  Finally,  Benson,  after  planning  it  with 
Charles,  removed  the  body  to  the  pit  some  time  after 
midnight." 

"This  is  mere  guess-work.  Let  us  stick  to  facts.  On 
Benson's  own  confession  he  entered  the  room  nefari- 
ously and  removed  the  dead  man's  body." 

"Yes,  but  it  was  a  dead  body  when  he  got  there — just 
dead.  Mr.  Glenthorpe  was  alive  and  well  not  ten  minutes 
before." 

"Oh,  come,  Mr.  Colwyn,  this  is  going  too  far,"  Gallo- 
way expostulated.  "Again,  I  say,  let  us  have  no  guess- 
work." 

"This  is  not  guess-work.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that 
the  murderer  left  the  room  by  the  window  just  before 
Benson  entered  it  by  the  door." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  asked  Galloway. 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  341 

"Because  he  was  watching  Benson  from  the  window." 

Galloway  looked  startled. 

"You  go  too  deep  for  me,"  he  said.  "Was  it  Pen- 
reath  who  got  out  of  the  window?" 

"No,  Penreath,  like  Benson,  was  the  victim  of  a  deep 
and  subtle  villain." 

"Then  who  was  it  ?" 

Before  Colwyn  could  reply  a  shriek  rang  out — a  single 
hoarse  and  horrible  cry,  which  went  reverberating  and 
echoing  over  the  marshes,  rising  to  a  piercing  intensity 
at  its  highest  note,  and  then  ceasing  suddenly.  In  the 
hush  that  ensued  the  chief  constable  looked  nervously  at 
Colwyn. 

"It  came  from  the  rise,"  he  said  in  a  voice  barely 
raised  above  a  whisper.  "Do  you  think " 

Colwyn  read  the  unspoken  thought  in  his  mind. 

"I'll  go  and  see  what  it  was,"  he  said  briefly. 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  out.  In  the  passage  he 
encountered  Ann  shaking  and  trembling,  with  a  face 
blanched  with  terror. 

"It  came  from  the  pit,  sir — the  Shrieking  Pit,"  she 
whispered.  "It's  the  White  Lady.  Don't  leave  me,  I'm 
like  to  drop.  God  a'  mercy,  what's  that?"  she  cried, 
finding  her  voice  in  a  fresh  access  of  terror  as  a  heavy 
knock  smote  the  door.  "For  God's  sake,  don't  'ee  go, 
sir,  don't  'ee  go,  as  you  value  your  life.  It's  the  White 
Lady  at  the  door,  come  to  take  her  toll  again  from  this 
unhappy  house.  You  be  mad  to  face  her,  sir — it's  cer- 
tain death." 

But  Colwyn  loosened  himself  quickly  from  her  de- 
taining grasp,  and  strode  to  the  door.  As  he  passed  the 
bar  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  ring  of  cowering  frightened 
faces  within,  huddled  together  like  sheep,  and  staring 


342  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

with  saucer  eyes.  The  mist  spanned  the  doorway  like 
a  sheet. 

"Who's  there?"  he  cried. 

"It's  me,  sir."  Constable  Queensmead  stepped  out  of 
the  mist  into  the  passage,  looking  white  and  shaken. 
"Something's  happened  up  at  the  pit.  While  I  was 
watching  from  the  corner  of  the  wood  I  saw  somebody 
appear  out  of  the  mist  and  come  creeping  up  the  rise 
towards  the  pit.  I  waited  till  he  got  to  the  brink,  and 
when  he  made  to  climb  down,  I  knew  he  was  the  man 
you  were  after,  so  I  went  over  to  the  pit.  He  had  dis- 
appeared inside,  but  I  could  hear  the  creepers  rustling 
as  he  went  down.  After  a  bit,  I  heard  him  coming  up 
again,  tugging  and  straining  at  the  creepers,  and  gasping 
for  breath.  When  he  was  fairly  out,  I  turned  my  torch 
on  him  and  told  him  to  stand  still.  It  is  difficult  to  say 
exactly  how  it  happened,  sir,  but  when  he  saw  he  was 
trapped  he  made  a  kind  of  spring  backwards,  slipped  on 
the  wet  clay,  lost  his  balance,  and  fell  back  into  the  pit.  I 
sprang  forward  and  tried  to  save  him,  but  it  was  too  late. 
He  caught  at  the  creepers  as  he  fell,  hung  for  a  second, 
then  fell  back  with  a  loud  cry." 

"Who  was  it,  Queensmead?" 

"Charles,  the  waiter,  sir." 

"We  must  get  him  out  at  once,"  said  Colwyn.  "We 
shall  need  a  rope  and  some  men.  Can  you  get  some 
ropes,  Queensmead  ?  There's  some  men  in  the  bar — we'll 
get  them  to  help. 

"I  don't  think  they're  likely  to  come,  sir.  They're  all 
too  frightened  of  the  Shrieking  Pit,  and  the  ghost." 

"I'll  go  and  talk  to  them.  Meanwhile,  you  go  and  get 
ropes." 

Colwyn  returned  to  the  bar  parlour  and,  after  explain- 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  343 

ing  to  Mr.  Cromering  and  Galloway  what  had  happened, 
went  into  the  bar. 

"Men,"  said  Colwyn,  "Charles  has  fallen  into  the  pit 
on  the  rise,  and  I  need  the  help  of  some  of  you  to  get 
him  out.  Queensmead  has  gone  for  ropes.  Who  will 
come  with  me?" 

There  was  no  response.  The  villagers  looked  at  each 
other  in  silence,  and  moved  uneasily.  Then  a  man  in 
jersey  and  seaboots  spoke: 

"None  of  us  dare  go  up  to  th'  pit,  ma'aster." 

"Why  not?" 

"Life  be  sweet,  ma'aster.  It  be  a  suddint  and  bloody 
end  to  meet  th'  White  Lady  of  th'  pit.  Luke  what's 
happened  to  Charles,  who  went  out  of  this  bar  not  ten 
minutes  agone !  Who  knows  who  she  may  take  next  ?" 

"Very  well,  then  stay  where  you  are.  You  are  a  lot 
of  cowards,"  said  Colwyn,  turning  away. 

The  faces  of  the  men  showed  that  the  epithet  rankled, 
as  Colwyn  intended  that  it  should.  There  was  a  brief 
pause,  and  then  another  fisherman  stepped  forward  and 
said: 

"I'm  a  Norfolk  man,  and  nobbut  agoin'  to  say  I'm 
afeered.  I'll  go  wi'  yow,  ma'aster." 

"If  yower  game,  Tom,  I'll  go  too,"  said  another. 

By  the  time  Queensmead  returned  with  the  ropes  there 
was  no  lack  of  willing  helpers,  and  the  party  immediately 
set  forth.  When  they  arrived  at  the  pit  Colwyn  said 
that  it  would  be  best  for  two  men  to  descend  by  separate 
ropes,  so  as  to  be  able  to  carry  Charles  to  the  surface 
in  a  blanket  if  he  were  injured,  and  not  killed.  Colwyn 
had  brought  a  blanket  from  the  inn  for  the  purpose. 

"I'll  go  down,  for  one,"  said  the  seaman  who  had  acted 
as  spokesman  in  the  bar.  "I'm  used  to  tying  knots  and 


344  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

slinging  a  hammock,  so  maybe  I  can  make  it  a  bit  easier 
for  the  poor  chap  if  he's  not  killed  outright." 

"And  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Colwyn. 

Mr.  Cromering  drew  the  detective  aside. 

"My  good  friend,"  he  said,  "do  you  think  it  is  wise 
for  you  to  descend  ?  This  man  Charles,  if  he  is  still  alive, 
may  be  actuated  by  feelings  of  revenge  towards  you, 
and  seek  to  do  you  an  injury." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  that,"  returned  Colwyn.  "I  laid 
the  trap  for  him,  and  it  is  my  duty  to  go  down  and  bring 
him  up." 

Colwyn  left  the  chief  constable  and  returned  to  the 
pit.  The  next  moment  he  and  the  seaman  commenced 
the  descent.  They  carried  electric  torches,  and  took  with 
them  a  blanket  and  a  third  rope.  They  were  carefully 
lowered  until  the  torches  they  carried  twinkled  more 
faintly,  and  finally  vanished  in  the  gloom.  A  little  while 
afterwards  the  strain  on  the  ropes  slackened.  The  res- 
cuers had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  pit.  A  period  of 
waiting  ensued  for  those  on  top,  until  a  jerk  of  the  ropes 
indicated  the  signal  for  drawing  up  again.  The  men  on 
the  surface  pulled  steadily.  Soon  the  torches  were  once 
more  visible  down  the  pit,  and  then  the  lanterns  on  the 
surface  revealed  Colwyn  and  the  fisherman,  supporting 
between  them  a  limp  bundle  wrapped  in  the  blanket,  and 
tied  to  the  third  rope.  As  they  reached  the  air  they  were 
helped  out,  and  the  burden  they  carried  was  laid  on  the 
ground  near  the  mouth  of  the  pit.  The  blanket  fell 
away,  exposing  the  face  of  Charles,  waxen  and  still  in 
the  rays  of  the  light  which  fell  upon  it. 

"Dead?"  whispered  Mr.  Cromering. 

"Dying,"  returned  Colwyn.    "His  back  is  broken." 

The  dying  man  unclosed  his  eyelids,  and  his  dark  eyes, 
keen  and  brilliant  as  every  roved  restlessly  over  the  group 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  345 

vvht»  were  standing  around  him.  They  rested  on  Colwyn, 
and  he  lifted  a  feeble  hand  and  beckoned  to  him.  The 
detective  knelt  beside  him,  and  rested  his  head  on  his  arm. 
The  white  lips  formed  one  word : 

"Closer." 

Colwyn  bent  his  head  nearer,  and  those  standing  by 
could  see  the  dying  man  whispering  into  the  detective's 
ear.  He  spoke  with  an  effort  for  some  minutes,  and  hur- 
riedly, like  one  who  knew  that  his  time  was  short.  Then 
he  stopped  suddenly,  and  his  head  fell  back  grotesquely, 
like  a  broken  doll's.  Colwyn  felt  his  heart,  and  rose  to 
his  feet. 

"He  is  dead,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

"THERE  are  several  things  that  I  do  not  understand," 
said  Superintendent  Galloway  to  Colwyn  a  little  later. 
"How  were  you  able  to  decide  so  quickly  that  Benson 
had  told  the  truth  when  he  declared  that  he  had  not  com- 
mitted the  murder,  after  he  had  made  the  damning  ad- 
mission that  he  had  removed  the  body?" 

"Partly  because  it  was  extremely  unlikely  that  Benson 
could  have  invented  a  story  which  fitted  so  nicely  with 
the  facts.  The  slightest  mistake  in  his  times  would  have 
proved  him  to  be  a  liar.  But  I  had  more  than  that  to 
go  upon.  I  said  this  afternoon  that  my  reconstruction 
was  not  wholly  satisfactory,  because  there  were  several 
loose  ends  in  it.  At  that  time  I  believed  he  vras  the 
murderer,  and  I  was  anxious  to  frighten  the  truth  out 
of  him  in  order  to  see  where  my  reconstruction  was  at 
fault.  His  story  proved  that  my  original  conception  of 
the  crime  was  the  correct  one,  and  my  mistake  was  in 
departing  from  it,  and  ignoring  some  of  my  original 
clues  in  order  to  square  the  new  facts  with  a  fresh 
theory.  I  should  never  have  lost  sight  of  my  first  con- 
viction that  there  were  two  persons  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's 
room  the  night  he  was  murdered. 

"When  Benson  told  his  story  I  asked  myself,  Could 
Charles'  conduct  be  dictated  by  the  desire  to  have  a  hold 
over  Benson — with  a  view  to  blackmail  later  on  ?  But  he 
was  not  likely  to  risk  his  own  neck  by  becoming  an 
accomplice  in  the  concealment  of  the  murdered  man's 
body!  Charles,  if  he  were  innocent  himself,  must  have 
thought  that  Benson  was  the  murderer.  It  was  impos- 

346 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  347 

sible  that  he  could  have  come  to  any  other  conclusion. 
He  discovers  a  man  washing  blood  off  his  hands  at  mid- 
night, and  this  man  admits  to  him  that  he  has  just  come 
from  a  room  which  he  had  no  right  to  enter,  and  found 
a  dead  man  there.  Why  had  Charles  believed — or  pre- 
tended to  believe — Benson's  story? 

"It  came  to  me  suddenly,  with  the  recollection  of  the 
line  under  the  murdered  man's  window — one  of  the  clues 
which  I  had  discarded — and  the  whole  of  this  baffling 
sinister  mystery  became  clear  in  my  mind.  The  murder 
was  committed  by  Charles,  who  got  out  of  the  window  by 
which  he  had  entered  just  before  Benson  came  into  the 
room.  Charles  saw  a  light  in  the  room  he  had  left,  and 
returned  to  the  window  to  investigate.  Crouching  out- 
side the  window,  he  saw  Benson  in  the  room,  examining 
the  body,  and  it  came  into  his  mind  as  he  watched  that 
his  employer  had  conceived  the  same  idea  as  himself — 
had  seized  on  the  presence  of  a  stranger  staying  at  the 
inn  in  order  to  rob  Mr.  Glenthorpe,  hoping  that  the  crime 
would  be  attributed  to  the  man  who  slept  in  the  next 
room.  Charles  was  quick  to  see  how  Benson's  presence 
in  the  room  might  be  turned  to  his  own  advantage. 
Charles  had  taken  precautions,  in  committing  the  mur- 
der, to  leave  clues  in  the  room  which  should  direct  sus- 
picion to  Penreath,  but  the  innkeeper's  visit  to  the  room 
suggested  to  him  an  even  better  plan  for  securing  his 
own  safety.  When  Benson  left  the  room  Charles  got 
through  the  window  again,  and  followed  him  downstairs. 

"Charles'  story,  told  to  me  when  he  was  dying,  filled 
in  the  gaps  which  I  have  omitted.  He  said  that  he 
watched  the  whole  of  Benson's  movements  from  the  win- 
dow. He  saw  him  searching  for  the  money,  saw  him 
feel  the  body,  and  saw  the  blood  on  his  hands.  When 
Benson  turned  to  leave  the  room  he  forgot  the  candle, 


348  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

and  it  was  then  that  the  idea  of  following  him  leapt  into 
Charles'  mind.  He  divined  that  Benson  would  go  down- 
stairs and  wash  the  blood  off  his  hands.  Charles'  idea 
was  to  go  after  him  and  surprise  him  in  the  act.  He 
followed  him  swiftly,  and  was  never  more  than  a  few 
feet  behind.  While  Benson  was  striking  a  match  and 
lighting  the  kitchen  candle  Charles  slipped  into  his  own 
room,  lit  his  own  candle,  and  then  emerged  from  his  door 
as  though  he  had  been  disturbed  in  his  sleep.  The  rest 
of  his  plan  was  easily  carried  out  through  the  fears  of 
Benson,  who  agreed,  in  his  own  interests,  to  conceal  the 
body  of  the  man  whom  the  other  had  murdered. 

"The  clue  by  which  Penreath  was  virtually  convicted — 
the  track  of  bootmarks  to  the  pit — was  an  accidental 
one  so  far  as  Charles  was  concerned.  It  is  strange  to 
think  that  Chance,  which  removed  the  clues  Charles 
deliberately  placed  in  the  room,  should  have  achieved 
Charles'  aim  by  directing  suspicion  to  Penreath  in  a 
different,  yet  more  convincing  manner. 

"The  murderer's  revelation  clears  up  those  points 
which  I  was  unable  to  settle  this  afternoon.  He  entered 
Mr.  Glenthorpe's  room  during  the  heaviest  part  of  the 
storm.  He  carried  a  box,  under  his  arm,  because  he  was 
too  short  to  get  into  the  window  without  something  to 
stand  on,  he  shielded  himself  from  the  rain  with  an  um- 
brella, which  got  caught  on  the  nail  by  the  window, 
and  he  lit  a  tallow  candle  which  he  had  brought  from  the 
bar. 

"Another  clue,  which  I  originally  discovered  and  laid 
aside,  is  also  explained.  The  wound  in  Mr.  Glenthorpe's 
body  struck  me  as  an  unusual  one.  You  heard  Sir 
Henry  Durwood  say,  in  answer  to  my  questions,  that  the 
blow  was  a  slanting  one,  struck  from  the  left  side, 
entering  almost  parallel  with  the  ribs,  yet  piercing  the 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  349 

heart  on  the  right  side.  The  manner  in  which  Mr.  Glen- 
thorpe's  arms  were  thrown  out,  his  legs  drawn  up,  proved 
that  he  was  lying  on  his  back  when  murdered.  For 
that  reason,  the  direction  of  the  blow  suggested  Charles 
as  the  murderer." 

"I  am  afraid  I  do  not  follow  you  there,"  said  Mr. 
Cromering. 

"Charles  had  a  malformed  right  hand;  his  left  hand 
was  his  only  serviceable  one.  The  blow  that  killed  Mr. 
Glenthorpe  struck  me  at  the  time  as  a  left-handed  blow. 
The  natural  direction  of  a  right-handed  blow,  with  the 
body  in  such  a  position,  would  be  from  right  to  left — not 
from  left  to  right.  But,  after  considering  this  point 
carefully,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  blow  might 
have  been  struck  by  a  right-handed  man.  I  was  wrong." 

"I  do  not  think  you  have  much  cause  to  blame  your- 
self," said  the  chief  constable.  "You  were  right  in  your 
original  conception  of  the  crime,  and  right  in  your  later 
reconstruction  in  every  particular  except " 

"Except  that  I  picked  the  wrong  man,"  said  Colwyn, 
with  a  sightly  bitter  laugh.  "My  consolation  is  that  Ben- 
son's confession  brought  the  truth  to  light,  as  I  expected 
it  would." 

"It  took  you  to  see  the  truth,"  said  Galloway.  "I 
should  never  have  picked  it.  I  suppose  there  has  never 
been  a  case  like  it." 

"There  is  nothing  new — not  even  in  the  annals  of 
crime,"  returned  Colwyn.  "But  this  was  certainly  a 
baffling  and  unusual  case.  The  murderer  was  such  a 
deep  and  subtle  scoundrel  that  I  feel  a  respect  for  his 
intelligence,  perverted  though  it  was.  His  master  stroke 
was  the  disposal  of  the  body.  That  shielded  him  from 
suspicion  as  completely  as  an  alibi.  I  put  aside  my  first 
suspicion  of  him  largely  because  I  realised  that  it  was 


350  THE  SHRIEKING  PIT 

impossible  for  a  man  with  a  deformed  arm  to  carry  away 
the  body.  Such  a  sardonic  situation  as  a  murderer  per- 
suading another  man  that  he  was  likely  to  be  suspected 
of  the  murder  unkss  he  removed  the  body  was  one  that 
never  occurred  to  me.  That,  at  all  events,  is  something 
new  in  my  experience." 

"It  is  a  wonder  that  Charles,  with  his  deformed  arm, 
was  able  to  go  down  the  pit  and  conceal  the  money,"  said 
the  chief  constable. 

"He  did  not  go  down  very  far.  It  is  not  a  difficult 
matter  to  climb  down  the  creepers  inside  with  the  sup- 
port of  one  hand,  and  he  was  able  to  use  the  other  suffi- 
ciently to  thrust  the  small  peg  into  the  soft  earth.  He 
first  hid  the  money  in  the  breakwater  wall,  being  too 
careful  and  clever  to  hide  it  in  the  pit  until  after  the 
inquest.  When  he  had  concealed  it  in  the  pit  he  revived 
the  story  of  the  White  Lady  of  the  Shrieking  Pit  so  as 
to  keep  the  credulous  villagers  away  from  the  spot.  He 
need  not  have  taken  that  precaution,  because  the  hiding 
place  was  an  excellent  one,  and  it  was  only  by  chance 
that  I  discovered  the  money  when  I  descended  the  pit. 
But  he  left  nothing  to  chance.  The  use  of  the  umbrella 
on  the  night  of  the  murder  proves  that  murderers  do  not 
usually  carry  umbrellas,  but  he  did,  because  he  feared  that 
if  his  clothes  got  wet  they  might  be  seen  in  his  room  the 
following  day,  and  direct  suspicion  to  him.  He  chose 
to  commit  the  crime  when  the  storm  was  at  its  height 
because  he  thought  he  was  safest  from  the  likelihood  of 
discovery  then. 

"The  callous  scoundrel  told  me  with  his  last  breath 
that  he  was  waiting  until  Penreath  was  safely  hanged 
before  disappearing  with  the  money.  When  he  opened 
the  door  to  us  to-night,  he  knew  that  he  was  at  the  end 
of  his  tether,  and  he  decided  to  try  to  bolt.  He  realised 


THE  SHRIEKING  PIT  351 

that  Benson  would  tell  the  truth  when  he  was  questioned 
and,  although  the  innkeeper's  story  did  not  implicate 
him  directly,  he  did  our  common  intelligence  the  justice 
to  believe  that,  through  his  dupe's  confession,  we  should 
arrive  at  the  truth." 


THE  END 


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